The Height Of Her Power
by Dan Sickles
Summary: The saga is now complete! How Anne Boleyn lost her head and her heart to a voluptuous innocent with big boobs and golden-hair named Jane Seymour. Tons of humor, some mild f/f slash, and a very happy ending. Rated T for wicked scheming and steamy royal sex!
1. The New Girl

THE HEIGHT OF HER POWER

_A great queen's pride collides with her passion. Is this the beginning of Anne's downfall? __Please comment nicely! _

The pretty blonde with the meek expression was just straightening up the bedroom when Anne walked in.

"Who are you?" Queen Anne frowned, instantly throwing back her shoulders to display all her beauty and majesty to the insignificant little nobody who was making up her bed. For some reason the dull but lush-figured blonde was laying a clean white towel over the sumptuous velvet bedclothes.

"Jane Seymour, Your Majesty." It always pleased Anne Boleyn to see how deeply other girls bowed to her when she put on her frowning face. At least this mousy little Jane had been well trained. It was fun to watch the girl bend her knees and sink all the way down – so low that Anne could see the tops of her firm breasts and the deep valley men were always so keen to explore.

Any man looking at Mistress Jane would naturally think of such things. Men were all the same. But why should she be thinking of such things while looking at another woman?

"What is your business here with us, Mistress Jane?" Anne's bold, saucy challenge was meant to remind the girl that she was insignificant, a nobody. But the queen's voice cracked as she averted her gaze from that oddly enticing bosom.

"I beg Your Majesty's pardon . . . I did not mean to intrude! But the king – that is, His Majesty has ordered – that I am to serve in your bedchamber."

"Does the king think to change my ladies without telling me?" Anne was glad to feel anger surge through her, replacing her odd thoughts. She was a queen, at the height of her power.

"No, Your Majesty! Your ladies are still close by. The king has only sent me to serve you in whatever way you see fit!"

"Really? Then I suppose I must find work for you." Anne shrugged her shoulders. "Here, help me out of this dress."

"Yes, Your Majesty. I have already drawn your bath and – and afterwards I will be pleased to serve you in every way."

The girl was nervous, Anne could tell. While her gown was being unlaced, she could hear Jane breathing. She could even feel the warmth of each breath on her bare shoulders. It made her feel powerful to know she could order the girl to do anything she wished. For a long time she lay in her bath with her eyes closed, picturing Jane Seymour at her mercy. Of course there was no reason to harm such a mousy girl. Henry Tudor liked girls with fire, spirit and intelligence.

Anne knew her position at his side was utterly secure.

"Does Your Majesty wish for a massage?"

"Eh?" Anne opened one eye. She had been dozing and had nearly forgotten the sweet-faced blonde with the soft voice. She was certain that Henry would never want such a timid creature – but it would do no harm to keep an eye on the girl.

The Queen of England was at the height of her power. She enjoyed her massage, and afterwards fell into a deep sleep. She didn't even notice when shy Jane Seymour slipped away.


	2. The Quarrel

CHAPTER TWO: The Quarrel

Anne was still sleeping when the king entered her chambers. When he sat down on the bed she rolled over and reached for him as she always did. His frowning face stopped her.

"You don't like the new maid I chose for you?"

"I never said that!" Anne sat up on the bed, quickly covering herself with a light silk robe. She wished now she hadn't been quite so haughty with young Jane Seymour. The new girl had done her job. In fact that massage had been lovely. But Anne's pride wouldn't let her back down. "I suppose the new girl made some whining complaint about my being too rough on her? I never laid a finger on her Harry, I swear it!"

King Henry VIII looked puzzled. His fiery queen was not the type to apologize for striking a servant – especially not a shy, shapely blonde like Jane Seymour. Yet Anne's face was flushed, agitated, her green eyes like a stormy sea. If she were anyone else Harry would have said she looked guilty.

"The girl came to me in tears," he said finally. "She said you were displeased because she was so nervous."

Anne shrugged. "She was shaking like a leaf while I got undressed. I've never had a maid tremble at the sight of my naked body." The queen laughed nervously, stifling the thought that being undressed by the sweet-faced blonde had made her a bit skittish too. It was all very odd, she decided. "I suppose I must have given her an impatient _look_ or something. Let's not make a quarrel of it, Harry."

"You'll keep the girl."

"My ladies have to be my choice!"

Just like that, they were at it again. Anne hated the way a blonde nobody like Jane Seymour could jeopardize her power over the king. But everyone was dangerous. When tall, dark Harry was boiling mad it didn't matter who or what had offended him. The slightest mistake could be deadly.

"And don't talk to me about your family honor!" he thundered, pacing up and down in front of their massive, rumpled bed. "The Boleyn family is nothing but thieves and degenerates. Thomas Boleyn is a white-haired old thief and your brother – do you know what brother George was accused of today?"

"People accuse him of all manner of things," Anne cried hotly. She tossed her red-gold hair, which was already escaping from the pins Jane had put in so carefully. "The Boleyns are on the rise. George is an easy target. He's young, good-looking, and charming." _And greedy, stupid and weak,_ a jeering voice in her head reminded her.

"Charming George got beaten up by a tailor today," King Henry said, with deadly calm. "But not for being unable to pay his bills. It seems the tailor was to fit him for a new doublet, but then he caught George and his apprentice . . ."

"That's a lie!" Anne Boleyn leapt off the bed in a frenzy. Harry thought she looked like a tiger, with her green eyes flashing and her bronze-gold hair coming down in waves.

The king caught her wrists, and crushed her mouth with his. Slowly, he forced her backwards onto the bed. The queen didn't yield to his fury. She just matched it with her own.

Both of them were angry. But the quarrel could wait.


	3. Jane's Loyalty

CHAPTER THREE: Jane's Loyalty

After all that yelling and arguing, and the frenzied lovemaking that followed, Anne needed her sleep badly. Once again the king had worn her out, turning the royal bed into a battlefield. Henry's rage was terribly exciting, even though she knew it was dangerous to provoke him too far. The risks of angering a king were great. But so was the thrill of provoking his passions, and making him lose control. Anne knew _she_ would never lose her head.

She had her own passions perfectly under control.

"Breakfast, Your Majesty?"

"Mmm . . . bugger off, you." Anne growled a curse and buried her face in the pillow. Her ladies knew what she was like after a rough night. She just wasn't a morning person. But amazingly enough, the soft, gentle voice in her ear was soon followed by a firm hand on her shoulder.

"Your Majesty, please wake up! It's a lovely day, and I'm sure you'll feel _much_ better if you just have a little breakfast."

"Just who the bloody hell do you think you are . . ." Anne rolled over with a snarl, meaning to claw the impertinent little intruder into shreds. Just as she thought, it was that new girl from yesterday – the shy blonde with the breasts. Anne frowned, for the new lady of her chamber was already bending over the bed with a tray, her bosom on display. Her white silk gown was molded to a body made for voluptuous pleasure, yet her face was soft, innocent, and eager to please. For some reason that sweet face stopped Anne's sharp tongue.

"Please, Your Majesty, just try a little of the hot mulled wine. I know it will please you – I grated the nutmeg for it myself!"

"We are most grateful," Anne replied, using her frosty voice. She couldn't help sinking back on her pillows and trying a little of the steaming mixture. It was just right, warm and spicy and absolutely delicious. She tilted the gold goblet and drank once more, forgetting to be proud and stiff and regal.

"Now please try a little of the coddled eggs and York ham." Jane Seymour pulled the cover from a steaming dish, her innocent blue eyes wide with sincere devotion. "I hope you will eat well, Your Majesty. His Majesty the king says you are getting much too skinny!"

"Henry said that?" Anne's cat-like eyes became green ice.

"Yes, Your Majesty!" Fresh from the country, Jane Seymour was too unsophisticated to sense the danger. She just felt spellbound as Anne's emerald eyes burned into hers. The queen was so brave and clever and beautiful! "I don't think those were the king's exact words," Jane mumbled.

"Repeat his words _exactly_, if you please."

Jane bobbed a curtsey and repeated the king's words. "His Majesty said that you must build up your strength to bear him a son. He says what a man most desires is a truly rounded and womanly figure." The blonde blushed, only realizing too late that the king had been talking of her figure.

"Get out!" Anne's rage made the room swim in a red haze. She might have struck the girl if she hadn't been lying down. Or if Jane's big blue eyes hadn't been brimming with tears.

"P-please, Your Majesty, I didn't mean to offend," the girl sniffled. Her breasts rose and fell with her sobs. "You ordered me to repeat His Majesty's words. I didn't think . . ."

"You didn't think." Anne paused, her voice cold. She was a great queen at the height of her reign. She relished the power, the feeling of total control, yet a queer struggle was going on inside her. She wanted to hurt Jane, to see her beg. Yet at the same time she wanted . . . she wanted . . .

"Listen to me, Jane Seymour," she gritted out at last, clenching the velvet bed covers in her damp palms. "You are a very beautiful girl. You have caught the king's eye, and I don't like it. How can I be sure that you are loyal to _me__?"_

"Please, Your Majesty!" Jane fell to her knees beside the bed, looking at Anne with her great shimmering blue eyes. "You are my lady and I will serve you in any way you desire!"

"In any way I desire?" Anne's crooked half-smile would have warned the king that she was cooking up devilment. Jane was innocent, however. When the queen leaned over and whispered into her ear, the blonde's flawless face was a study in pure shock, followed by curiosity and excitement.

"Now leave me," Anne said at last, falling back onto her pillows with a wave of her hand. She tried to look bored and disdainful as the lovely blonde hurried out of her chamber.

She didn't forget to polish off her coddled eggs, however.


	4. The Simplest Thing

_C__hapter Four: The Simplest Thing _

"Aw, not this again." Getting beat up by fat, smelly bullies was an everyday experience for Francis Tilton. But as the jeering boys closed in, the slim, delicately-built tailor's apprentice did wonder what it would be like to be loved.

His mother had died when he was just a baby. His father had bound him out to a cruel tailor, and his new master had punched him and kicked him from the time he was old enough to feel pain. The only person who had ever shown him favor was George. But that was not love. That was sin . . . abomination . . . _unnatural_ behavior.

"Get off your arse and fight, you little milk sop!" Sam Baker was the worst of the local bullies. He hated Francis even more than the rest. Big fat Sam was afraid of girls, just like skinny little Francis. But Sam liked to do bad things to stray dogs and cats. He lured them into the alley behind the tailor's shop. So one night Francis dumped a bucket of urine on Sam's head from an upstairs window!

"I'll fight you, fat boy," said a soft voice. Francis wiped the mud from his face and looked up in astonishment. Standing at the ready just a few feet away was the most dashing swordsman the young apprentice had ever seen. He was obviously wealthy, resplendent in velvet and lace. Everything about the young gallant was confident and carefree, from his tall polished boots to the white plume on his wide-brimmed hat. But the Spanish blade in his hand looked quite deadly.

"This ain't your quarrel, milord," Sam went for his club. But before he could even lift it the dashing stranger jabbed twice, spearing Sam's wrist and then slashing the bully's flabby face. The flashing blade just missed his piggy little eyes!

"Do be careful," purred the elegantly dressed swordsman. "I'd hate to see another blind beggar on the streets."

"I'll get even with you!" blubbered Sam, but he was bleeding and scared and already backing away. Francis stuck out a foot and tripped him. His own mates laughed, and Sam jumped up and chased them, forgetting all about Francis.

"Who are you?" Francis longed to say something courtly and clever; the kind of thing George knew how to say. Instead he just gaped like a simpleton at the elegant black-clad noble.

"A friend." The stranger was already sheathing his sword. Something about that insolent smile and those cool, cat-like green eyes was strangely familiar. "Ah, here's Jane now. Come with me, lad. Come on, move those skinny legs!"

"I will follow you, my lord, and gladly. But my master – the tailor – that is, I cannot end my service without . . ." Francis fell silent in astonishment as a long black coach rolled up to them. A liveried footman scrambled to open the door. Sitting inside among the plush cushions was the most beautiful lady Francis Tilton had ever seen.

"The tailor has been paid, Your Majesty," said the lady with the perfect rosy complexion and the shining golden hair. Her smile was like a sunbeam. Her blue eyes softened as she looked at Francis. "It's all right, dear. You don't have to go back there any more. We're here to take you . . ."

"No, no, no. _Your Majesty?_" Francis staggered back, staring at the slim swordsman who had rescued him. "You're not . . . you couldn't be . . . are you the king, Your Majesty?"

"No, you booby." The dashing gallant gave a shout of laughter, sweeping off the plumed hat to make an elegant bow. "I am indeed royalty, Francis Tilton, but I am no king. I'm a lady, though not always as well-behaved as pretty Jane Seymour here. Queen Anne of England, at your service."

"Your Majesty . . . Queen Anne . . . my lady . . ." Francis was flummoxed. He had no idea whether to return the queen's playful bow, or fall to his knees in the roadway, or kiss her hand.

In the end he did the simplest thing. He fainted.


	5. Not All Bad

_Chapter Five__: Not All Bad_

"All right, boy. End of the road." The carriage pulled up at the edge of a wood, facing a large Gothic structure. Moonlight and shadow made it appear mysterious and quite forbidding.

"Your Majesty?" Francis Tilton had been sleeping with his head on Lady Jane Seymour's firm and comforting shoulder. He woke up to find himself staring deep into the piercing emerald eyes of Queen Anne. Even dressed as a boy the queen was both authentically majestic and a bit frightening.

"We've helped you to escape your cruel master, Francis," the beautiful young queen said sternly. "Now it's time for you to help yourself. That building you see over there used to be St. Edward's Abbey. It is now St. Edward's School for poor and homeless boys. Your place has already been paid for from my private purse. We expect you to make us proud, to study hard and obey your masters."

"Yes, Your Majesty!"

"And one thing more," the queen commanded. "Do not speak to anyone of what you saw today. The queen does not dress in men's attire, or fight with common ruffians in the street. And as for our brother George, Lord Rochford . . . you will forget about him. Do you understand, Francis?"

The boy blushed, and looked rather ashamed for a moment. "He didn't force me, Your Majesty," he stammered. "I liked him, right off. But we were both very sorry afterwards . . ."

"Her Majesty is giving you a chance to start over," Lady Jane said gently. "You understand about starting over, don't you Francis?"

"Yes, my lady! God bless you! God bless Your Majesty!"

"Not bad," Anne said approvingly, after the boy was gone. With a crack of the whip, the royal carriage was in motion.

"I'm sure young Francis will work very hard to make you proud of him." Lady Jane smiled shyly at her mistress in the moonlight. "How kind and good you are, Your Majesty!"

"Me?" Anne's exquisite features took on a look of amusement. "I fear you are mistaken, Jane. I got rid of a potential source of embarrassment to my family, that's all."

"But you saved that poor boy!" Jane cried breathlessly. "You gave him another chance."

"Another chance for folly and disgrace," Anne snorted. "I'll be very surprised if pretty young Francis stops fancying older men. I just want him kept away from my idiot brother George for a few months, until I . . . until my position is secured."

"There are many ways you might have got rid of that boy, short of paying for his education and rescuing him from abuse," practical Jane pointed out. "I think the king is very fortunate to have a queen like you to bear him a son."

"Well, no other woman is up to the job," Anne said, in her confident, boastful way. "No other woman better try, either."

Jane's sweet, lovely face looked pained in the moonlight. "Your Majesty, how can I prove that I am loyal only to you?"

Anne gave her a look. "By following me on my wild adventures. By keeping all my secrets. By putting up with my many moods. And by reminding me that I'm not all bad!"

"Your Majesty is not all bad," Jane said gravely. There was a hint of quiet, knowing humor in those enormous blue eyes.

Anne laughed, but deep down she felt a trace of uneasiness. Jane's genuine sweetness was more than she could resist. And if she could not help loving the girl, how could the king?

There had to be a way to keep Jane all to herself.


	6. Hot And Cold

_Chapter Six:__ Hot and Cold_

Haughty, beautiful and coldly perfect in every way, Queen Anne was a sight to behold as she swept into the private office of the king's most trusted and most powerful minister.

Very imposing she is, Thomas Cromwell thought to himself. The Boleyn woman presented a public face that was as hard and cold as ice. Yet ice could melt, or even shatter . . .

"Master Secretary, I want to know why the money taken from St. Edward's Abbey has not gone to the new school for boys."

"The school . . . is already operating on the old Abbey grounds. Surely the buildings are sufficient?"

"No, they're not!" Anne felt frustrated. There was something about Henry's cold, controlling minister that really got under her skin. Cromwell bowed to show respect, but it was just a show. Deep down he always seemed to be mocking her! "Last night my ladies in waiting and I just happened to be passing by the old Abbey, and we noticed that the windows are nothing but big black holes cut into the ancient stone. No glass, no shutters. What will happen when winter comes?"

"It will grow cold." The king's ruthless minister shrugged. "No doubt the monks were often cold. But they survived. The boys will survive as well."

Anne glared at the man. "You know perfectly well why the monks survived . . . because they gouged the countryside for miles around, and had plenty of furs and jewels and food to last the winter out. But _we_ are not corrupt, Master Secretary. And we do _not_ force poor children to freeze and starve all winter just to enrich ourselves!"

"And Your Majesty just happened to notice all this while passing the Abbey . . . by chance?" Cromwell smiled, amused at how quickly the icy young queen revealed a fiery temper. But the hot-headed beauty was wasting her breath. The gold from the ransacked abbey was safe in the king's treasury . . . and he'd already gotten his share.

"Nothing I do is by chance, Master Secretary," Anne snapped. "Now see to it that St. Edward's gets that money."

The queen's cheeks were burning as she swept down the corridor with her head high. Though she had spoken up boldly for the boys, Anne knew she was on shaky ground. Cromwell had spies everywhere, and he might well connect her kindness to young Francis to her brother George. Curse George and his weak willed ways, with that charming smile and that unfortunate taste for younger men!

But she was the queen, Anne reminded herself. She was the queen, dammit, and Henry should listen to her and not to Cromwell. Henry should . . .

"But Your Majesty, it is not right . . ."

"Call me Harry," said a deep, seductive voice.

The queen's vision snapped into focus as she rounded the final corner before her own chambers. There was Henry, the King of England, and there was beautiful young Jane Seymour, her newest lady in waiting. There was lust in his face, and shame in hers. Jane might not want to be kissed, but she would allow it. She would have no choice.

Anne went hot, then cold all over. She clenched her fists, the sharp nails biting into her sweaty palms. She wouldn't stand for this. She wouldn't! Feeling sick to her stomach and almost dizzy with rage, the queen opened her mouth to tell her gorgeous, lying husband and her sweet, spineless maid _exactly_ what she thought of them.

And then she fainted.


	7. A Taste Of Anne

_C__hapter Seven: A Taste Of Anne_

Anne awoke feeling limp, powerless, like a marionette whose strings had been cut. She was lying in bed, and someone was gently dabbing her brow with a cool damp cloth.

"Traitor." The queen tried to sound like doom. But Anne's throat was parched, her voice barely a scratchy whisper. She wondered how long she had been out.

"Drink, Your Majesty." Utterly unperturbed, Jane Seymour lifted a golden goblet to her lips. "This is honey with celandine and a tiny bit of vinegar. I mixed it myself. You'll soon find it's not so bad if you just give it a try."

"Mm." Anne hated herself for obeying orders. The stuff tasted bitter, then sweet. But apparently Jane's concoction was good for whatever it was that ailed her. Before long she was sucking it up like a thirsty plant.

"There, that's better." Jane whisked the goblet away and gave the queen's flushed face another go with the cool cloth. "It could do no harm if you slept, Your Majesty. Right now rest is best. Too much excitement isn't good for the baby."

"The baby?" Anne yanked her droopy green eyes wide open again. "How could you – how long have you – when did I – damn it, I haven't noticed any of the usual signs!"

"Well, small wonder, when Your Majesty insists on running here and there, defending the poor, getting into sword fights and who knows what else!" Jane's twinkling blue eyes turned serious. "When we spoke this morning, the king ordered me to take better care of you, Your Majesty. He has been greatly worried about you lately, owing to your dark moods."

"My foul temper, you mean," Anne grumbled.

Jane hid a smile. "I told him I thought Your Majesty might be with child, and that naturally you might be tired and irritable. And then your fainting spell eliminated all doubt."

"So you are to take better care of me." Anne yawned, suddenly as tired as Jane said. "Is that all he asked of you?"

Jane shook her head, and her innocent blue eyes clouded. "He said I was to call him Harry," she whispered.

The queen narrowed her sleepy green eyes. "And do you know what that leads to?"

"Not to anything improper, I do assure you," Jane insisted. "I told His Majesty, I have no greater riches in the world than my honor, which I would not injure for a thousand deaths."

"Balls."

"Your Majesty!" Jane was shocked. Ladies never swore, and a queen was surely a lady. Yet Anne was not like any other lady Jane had ever known. She was different, so dark and cruel yet sweet and good deep down. Anne was like a man, outrageous, complicated and fascinating. She was so wild that just being around her made Jane's heart race.

"You can love Harry. Or you can love me." Anne's voice went low and husky, and she rose up and took the startled Jane into her arms. "Here's a taste of Anne."

Clever schemer that she was, Anne was certain that she could control the kiss. She wanted to show sweet little Jane that she was still just a country nobody, that her queen _owned_ her body and soul. If the girl found the experience overwhelming, or even frightening, well, so much the better. Anne would match Henry, one cruel seduction for another.

What the clever queen had not counted on was the warm generosity of Jane's response. Instead of pulling away, the voluptuous blonde actually enfolded the queen in her arms. Jane kissed like a dream. Anne had the feeling of being wrapped in sunlight as the sweet, soft-spoken lady in waiting pressed her ample curves against her, as nurturing and sustaining as Anne was hungry and demanding.

Anne had never known much love as a child. And there was something almost motherly about Jane's tenderness. Perhaps that was why, after a moment, it was the queen who broke away, her breathing ragged and her voice hoarse.

"I'm tired," she said, falling backwards into her pillow. Anne was panting, her lips buzzing from Jane's kiss. "Leave me."

"Yes, Your Majesty." Lady Jane Seymour rose from the bed and stepped back, dropping into a flawless curtsey. "I'm certain you must be tired," she said softly. "After some rest, Your Majesty will feel like a new woman. And the new baby will be strong and healthy and all will be well at last."

Anne bit her lip, turning her head to one side on the pillow. She didn't feel clever now. She felt . . . dirty. Empty. Cruel. She felt like calling Jane back. She felt crying in her arms.

She felt like kissing her some more.

_A/N: __Thanks to Eugenia Victoria for the lovely Jane Seymour quote. _


	8. Meet The Seymours

_C__hapter Eight: Meet The Seymours_

_All these things will I give thee, if thou wilt fall down and worship me. Matthew 4:9_

"Isn't it beautiful?" Sir John Seymour gestured at the broad panorama spread out before the small party on horseback. The land was rich, the meadows golden and the orchards ripe with promise.

"Father, it's wonderful!" Jane Seymour's wide blue eyes were shining. "St. Edward's Fields is a beautiful estate, but I never thought . . . did you borrow the money?"

"I didn't have to," the old man said proudly. "It was a gift from the king himself!"

"Oh, no." Jane's face fell, though she knew it was not her place to question her father's dealings with the king. "Father, did His Majesty say why he was pleased to bestow such a rich prize on us?"

Sir John's kindly red face looked puzzled. "Only because we deserved it, Jane. We Seymours have always been loyal to Henry VIII. I served the king in France, your brother Edward serves him in Scotland, and now you serve the King and Queen at court."

Jane squirmed in her saddle. "I know that, father. And I want to serve the king with honor, as you did. But ever since good Queen Anne began feeling poorly, I've had the feeling that the king might be . . ."

"Might be looking for another queen, sister?" Jane's brother Edward laughed loudly, reining in a powerful black steed. "For my part, I hope His Majesty does get rid of that skinny, loud-mouthed Boleyn woman. Henry needs someone sweet and ripe and fresh, like you.

"I'm not a piece of fruit," Jane growled. Lately it seemed her tongue was getting sharper, as though Anne's strong personality was rubbing off on her.

She liked it.

"You know what I mean," Edward told her. "The king needs a wholesome country girl who can give him a son, not a drama queen who makes public scenes instead of healthy babies."

"Elizabeth is healthy," Jane shot back, tossing her head. "The baby princess is strong and smart, just like her mother. And the next baby Ann delivers will be a son!"

"God grant you are right, daughter," old Sir John said kindly. Though his blue eyes were mild, they rested on Jane with a father's firmness. "But if it should be God's will that Queen Anne should lose her baby, or die in child bed, or otherwise fall from grace, then our master the king will need your help to produce a male heir. And you will not fail him."

"I will not fail him." Jane's cheeks burned hot as she imagined taking Anne's place in the king's bed. It was horrible to realize that a part of her wanted _that_ to happen.

"You don't have to wait for Anne to fail," Edward put in nastily. "Be smart, Jane. Get the king on your side now."

"The king is on my side," Jane said coldly. "He values more than my body, Edward. He values my honor. And my loyalty to the queen."

"If you're fool enough to believe that . . ." Edward began, but his father cut him off.

"Jane will do the right thing," Sir John said firmly. "Come, shall we ride back to the house?"

"I thank you father, but no," Jane said. "I would like to be alone for a while . . . to think about my duty."

"Very well, my child. But don't ride too far."

As soon as she received her father's blessing, Jane wheeled her horse, and headed off to the nearby forest. It wasn't truly an act of rebellion.

But it was a start.

_A/N: Special thanks to Uber Drama Llama for suggesting a closer look at the Seymours!_


	9. Like A Queen

_Chapter Nine: Like A Queen _

Jane was glad to get away from her men folk for a spell. Father and Edward were decent men. They wanted to protect her. But grabbing lands and power was not the same as finding true happiness. Men just didn't understand . . .

Suddenly the beautiful young lady-in-waiting heard angry cries and the sound of a scuffle from the nearby woods. Spurring her horse, she galloped down a narrow path. A mob of unruly boys were harassing a poor wandering monk!

"What's the trouble here?" A Seymour was always bold in moments of crisis – but Jane was also inspired by her new friend Queen Anne. Anne was always jumping in to defend the underdog. Jane's family fought only for their own rights.

"St. Edward's Well belongs to all travelers," gasped the fat, bald monk. He wore monkish garb, all right – brown robes and a belted rope around his waist. Yet something about his appearance wasn't quite right. "All I did was stop for a drink and these ruffians set up on me, my lady. They told me I was trespassing on Seymour land!"

"This is Seymour land," Jane replied, managing her restless, tossing mount with cool determination. She turned her calm, blue-eyed gaze on the boys. "I am Jane, lady-in-waiting to good Queen Anne, and daughter of Sir John Seymour . . . your new landlord."

No one had anything to say to that.

Jane let the silence build. When she spoke, she kept her voice low. "I am disappointed by what I see here today. If you wish to remain on this land, remember your manners. We Seymours show courtesy to all, high and low. And we expect the same."

"But my lady, that one's a spy!" Suddenly a tall, black-haired scarecrow of a boy pointed at the fat monk. "His Excellency Cromwell gave orders that all monks are to be driven out. They spread lies and treason! We're supposed to catch them and question them if they are caught lurking in the old places."

"You may leave that to me," Jane said coldly. "Now leave us, my friends. The holy father and I wish to talk."

Jane was a gentle soul, but she could be commanding when she really put her mind to it. The boys shambled off at once. The tall one actually yanked his forelock in respect. As they left she heard a few stifled whispers that made her smile.

"Never expected the likes of her . . . d'you see her eyes . . . like blue fire! Bright golden hair . . . beautiful as a queen . . ."

"Thank you, my daughter," the fat man said, dusting off his brown robes. "I know not how to repay your kindness."

Jane slid from her horse, tethering him to a nearby tree. "You may start by telling me your real business here, sir. You aren't a monk or a friar. And you didn't come here only to drink the water of St. Edward's Well."

The fat man raised his sandy eyebrows in mild surprise. "But the Well has been holy since Saxon times, daughter. Don't you know the story of how holy Edward found a miracle in the forest? He was lost and terribly thirsty, and then . . ."

"And then a mysterious, beautiful stag guided him to this very spot, where he found a pool of water." Jane laughed, and knelt down and crossed herself before the pool. She looked over her shoulder at the older man, blue eyes twinkling. "I don't believe the story. But I miss the old ways."

Her companion laughed too. They drank from the holy spring, and then they sat down together on a stone bench.

"My lady, I am not truly a monk," the heavily-built man confessed. His face was flushed and red. "My name is Sir Humphrey Babcock, and I don't agree with the king's new religion. Therefore I am preparing to leave England forever. I just wanted to see the holy sights one last time."

"You wish to leave England, yet this road goes north, away from the sea ports." Jane looked at him. "Could you be planning to visit other Catholics on your way? Perhaps a certain lonely girl named Mary?" She let her blue eyes grow cold like the winter sky. "It would be shame if an act of kindness led to an execution for treason."

"That poor girl you speak of needs all the friends she can find," Sir Humphrey exclaimed quickly. "But I had no intention of stirring up trouble or discontent. I only put on this humble disguise so I could bring her a few coins and . . . and try to make her imprisonment a little more comfortable."

Jane nodded, satisfied the man was sincere. "That brave young lady certainly needs loyal friends," she said, removing a gold ring from her finger. "Please give her this, and tell her that humble Jane Seymour sends greetings and love."

"But . . . but are you not a lady-in-waiting to Queen Anne? Surely this would be death for you, if it were known." Sir Humphrey's brown eyes were nearly popping out of his head. Gentle Lady Jane had just put her life in his hands!

"I trust you." Jane said simply, handing over the ring. "It is my honor and privilege to serve Queen Anne in every way. But I will not have her enemies say she is cold towards her poor little stepdaughter. Queen Anne has a loving heart – though her temper can be as fiery as her passions."

"Yes, my lady! May God keep you, my lady!" The fat man stuffed the precious gold ring into the pouch at his waist, and bowed several times while backing away from the demure, soft-spoken young blonde. Lady Jane Seymour was beautiful. But she was also kind and gentle and thoughtful, and fearless and determined too. She was like a queen!

"May God keep you too, my friend." Lady Jane smiled as the fat man hurried away. "And Sir Humphrey? Try to remember that monks go barefoot. Unless you're far more careful, those fine boots of leather will surely give you away!"

_A/N: Sorry this one's so long and talky, but I wanted to set up Jane as a possible peacemaker between Anne and Mary. We'll be seeing more of Mary Tudor in later chapters!_


	10. Lust And Lies

_Chapter Ten: Lust and Lies _

Lady Mary Tudor was talking to herself, muttering in a low, angry voice as she paced back and forth in her room. In her imagination she was the Queen of England, and she was doing all sorts of horrible things. Mary wanted to be cruel. She wanted to die _drenched_ in the blood of her enemies. And when people asked her why she would say:

_Before I die, I just want to tell the whole world how much I loved my father, and how he crushed my spirit by never returning that love._

_I could have been a very different person if the king had ever told me that he cared about me. I might have been merciful, compassionate and understanding. But how can you learn those things without ever seeing them first hand?_

_I know I've had a bloody reign. I killed many lustful sinners. Sometimes I hear them screaming in my dreams. But I wake up crying for my mother, lost forever after my father separated us and married that no-good whore Anne Boleyn. I wish I could burn her at the stake like I burned all the others. They all deserved it, but she deserved it most of all. _

_You see, my father never figured out that my love was worth anything. He had to go looking for love in all the sewers of England before he could admit that his own wife and daughter had anything to give. He's the one who ought to feel guilty for all the people I killed. He drove me to it. He was the cause of everything bad I ever did . . . _

"Bless you, my daughter." A soft, pain-wracked voice pulled Mary Tudor back to reality.

"Who are you? How did you get in here?" she demanded, whirling to face the unexpected intruder. But the moment she saw the brown robes and the round, kindly face she rushed to kneel at the feat of the traveling friar.

"Forgive me, father," she said, reverently kissing the wooden cross that hung from the rope belt at the holy man's waist. Mary bent down even lower, humbly abasing herself before the messenger of the Holy Church she adored. But then the kneeling princess got another shock.

"Riding boots!" Her dark brown eyes narrowed with suspicion. "You're not a friar – who are you? Are you some sort of spy, sent by my father the king? Or are you an assassin, sent by that heretic whore Anne Boleyn?"

The round-faced man gave a grimace of pain as he collapsed on a sturdy wooden stool. "Forgive me, princess. My name is Sir Humphrey Babcock, and I'm a loyal friend of your mother and the church. It was only to reach you safely that I adopted the robes of a holy man – and the bare feet as well. But that part of my disguise proved too difficult to maintain."

"Oh, you poor man! Let me help you!" Mary had no servants to do the nasty work for her. So she understood the moment she pulled off the traveler's muddy boots. Sir Humphrey's feet were a bloody mess, as though he'd been walking barefoot over sharp rocks for miles. Before the loyal knight could stop her she ran for hot water and soothing ointments to tend his wounds. Even if she had had proper servants, it was better that no one discover her secret visitor.

"Gracious lady, thank you." Sir Humphrey said simply, when the princess was finished nursing his hurts.

"Dear friend, did no one else try to help you along the way? Is everyone in England afraid of my tyrant father and his whore?"

"Only one kind soul tried to help me," the weary man sighed. "It was the false queen's friend, Jane Seymour."

"Jane Seymour?" Mary wrinkled her nose. "I've heard that name – people say the Seymour family is as greedy and ambitious as the Boleyn crew. I'll bet that Jane woman is already wiggling into my father's bed!"

"I don't know anything about that," Sir Humphrey said mildly. "But when I met her on the road Lady Jane protected me from attack and even gave me a token to give to your grace." And he handed over the plain gold ring hidden in his robes.

"This must go to my mother," Mary said, frowning at the costly ring. "She will need to keep warm this winter. As for Lady Jane, how do we know she isn't just being clever, trying to make sure she has friends on both sides?"

"Dear princess, if you could just see Lady Jane, talk to her, you'd know she is a lady like no other. She's almost like a golden angel come down to earth. So brave, so kind and generous . . . Lady Jane is truly good, and so very beautiful!"

"Yes, of course. I'm sure you're right, Sir Humphrey." Mary smiled, but she knew the score. Men were all alike. Show them a pretty face and they drooled like dogs over a bone. Life was all lust and lies. Angel-faced Lady Jane was just another scheming whore, she was sure of it.

Just then there was a loud banging on the door of her chamber.

"Hide, Sir Humphrey, hide!" Lady Mary quickly shooed her limping visitor into an empty closet, then turned to open the door to her private chamber.

"Lady Mary, your royal father commands you to attend him at Windsor Castle. There is to be a week-long tournament of jousting and feasting, to honor the beauty and virtue of Lady Jane Seymour."

"Really?" Lady Mary looked the well-dressed royal messenger up and down. She wasn't the type to show happiness openly, but in this case she couldn't resist a smile. She knew who this insolent, white-haired scoundrel was. "My noble Earl of Wiltshire, how is it that the king has taken to honoring Lady Jane with his valor, and not your daughter? Anne is still queen, is she not?"

"She is," the wretched Thomas Boleyn ground out, between clenched teeth. "Anne is even now carrying another child."

"Oh, well I hope it's a boy this time," Mary said lightly. "In the meantime, my good lord, please thank my royal father and tell him I shall certainly attend him at Windsor."

It was all lust and lies, Mary thought, when Anne's flunky father was gone. Yet she skipped around her chamber all the same, much to the amusement of Sir Humphrey Babcock. She would see _her_ father again! That meant more to Mary than all her bloody fantasies of revenge. And though she would never admit it, part of her was secretly dying to meet the noble, brave and beautiful Lady Jane as well.


	11. One Man's Family

_Chapter Eleven: One Man's Family _

The early-morning sounds of the English countryside were very special to Charles Brandon. It was good to be out here, in the misty dawn, practicing sword craft with the son who would someday inherit his lands and bear his name with honor. Charles would have preferred to spend the time with Edward in some other way. But the sad fact was that even for a kind and noble gentleman, honor and privilege brought trouble and danger.

And so the early-morning sounds of wind and running water and the singing of birds in the trees were interrupted by the noisy clatter of wooden swords.

"Better, son, much better." The tall, broad-shouldered warrior batted aside the little boy's wooden blade. Then he clapped him affectionately on the shoulder. "But remember, always parry downwards, not up."

"Why, father?" Edward was only six. The way he looked up at Charles made it obvious how much he admired him. He thought his father was the greatest hero in the world.

Charles knew better. He frowned, remembering a lifetime of sins, some pleasurable and some not. Hearts broken, trust betrayed. The shedding of innocent blood. "You don't want to knock the other man's blade upwards. It could go right through your eye and kill you. Now come on, let's go back to the hall for breakfast. Your mother will be awake soon."

"She will not," young Edward said cheekily, as they walked along the green forest path. "Mummy always sleeps extra late whenever we go out hunting or practicing sword craft. Mummy says all that is just men's foolishness."

Charles grinned, ruffling his son's curly hair. He knew the real reason beautiful Catherine needed her morning rest. For him the days of seducing one woman after another were over. He was tired of the royal court, tired of all the lies and intrigue. His wife was the only woman he ever wanted to make love to again, day and night for the rest of his life.

"Why does Mummy say fighting is just foolishness, Papa? Men have to know how to fight, don't they?"

The Duke of Suffolk looked down at his son. "They do," he said sadly. "Sometimes there's no other choice. But the only good reason to fight is to protect the woman you love, the land you love, or the people you love."

Edward smiled, showing dimples just like his mother's. "Those are three good reasons, not one. Are there any good reasons not to fight, papa?"

"I'll give you reasons not to fight, saucy boy!" Charles handed the two practice swords to a servant, and wrestled his son to the ground. Edward laughed and laughed, certain his magnificent warrior father would protect him forever.

The two of them were having breakfast in the great hall when King Henry's messenger arrived.

"Your Grace, the king misses your company. He is pleased to invite you and your lady to attend the great tournament at Windsor Castle in honor of the lovely and virtuous Lady Jane Seymour. His Majesty hopes that you will honor him as a friend and brother by meeting him on horseback in a jousting match before the entire court, your lance against his until one of you is overthrown."

"Jousting with the king! Jousting with the king! My papa is the greatest knight in England! He's going to joust with the king!" Edward was banging his wooden spoon on the table.

"Peace, you rogue. This is nothing to celebrate." Charles frowned, a premonition of disaster souring the food in his stomach. But the king's messenger was watching him. "Good sir, please wait here. Eat and break your fast. I must speak to my lady upstairs."

Charles climbed the stone steps two at a time, anxious to shake off the feeling of dread that clung to him like a clammy graveyard mist. Catherine's bedchamber was warm and his beautiful young wife was still asleep, her long dark hair fanned out in waves across the white lace pillow.

"Cat, wake up." Charles shook her gently, knowing how she hated a rough awakening. But he couldn't resist kissing her lips the moment she opened her eyes.

"Charles, it's too early for . . . mm." Catherine's muffled protest ended in a moan, as her body responded to his.

"Nothing in the world means more to me than you," the Duke of Suffolk told his wife, his voice husky with feeling. "I wish we could stay here like this for the rest of our lives."

"Yes, just like this!" Catherine kissed with gusto, but her smile had a brittle edge. "We're safe in the country, away from all the danger and excitement of the outside world." She yawned, stretching slim white arms high over her head. "At least at court people rise at a civilized hour!"

"Do you miss the court?" Charles asked, sitting down on the rumpled bed and holding out both hands to his wife.

"Well, what use to complain about it?" Practical Catherine brushed aside his hands. She jumped up and went to her wardrobe, her flimsy bed gown showing off very long legs. "The king has decided he needs you no longer – he prefers men of mean birth like that awful Cromwell. You said we will never go back to court without an invitation, and I'm glad. I can't abide being treated like a servant!" Standing before her mirror in her favorite morning robe, Catherine gave her long, lustrous mane a defiant toss. It fell over her shoulder, a dark shimmering curtain that reached nearly to her waist.

"The king has sent us an invitation," Charles said, in a low voice. For once his wife's great beauty failed to cheer him. "He wants us back at Windsor for a great tournament, with jousting and feasts."

"Charles!" The joy in Catherine's face broke his heart. Yet when she threw herself into his arms Charles couldn't help himself.

He picked her up and carried her back to bed.


	12. The Lady In White

_Chapter Twelve: The Lady In White _

Lady Mary Tudor knew a lot about loneliness. It was easiest to bear when you were alone, and hardest when you were in a crowd. Especially when it was a happy crowd.

_And why wouldn't they be happy?_ The unwanted daughter asked herself bitterly, hanging back in the shadows while the other guests – the guests who were truly welcome here at Windsor Palace – were greeted by the king and his whore.

"Charles!" Mary's father wrapped the Duke of Suffolk in a fierce bear hug that nearly lifted the taller man off his feet. Mary knew that was to show how much the king loved his favorite courtier – perhaps not as much as he pretended, but _certainly_ a lot more than he loved his true wife and daughter! More important, the king had to hug Charles Brandon _extra_ hard to show everyone what a big, strong man he was.

"Dear Lady Catherine, you and your noble husband are both welcome at Windsor Castle." That was the whore speaking. Mary glared at her from the shadows, counting the stolen jewels dangling from Anne Boleyn's skinny neck. That one was mother's . . . and that one . . . and that one too . . .

But for all the glitter and sparkle, Mary noticed that the whore didn't look very happy. She was pale under the torchlight, and though it was hard to see from where Mary was standing it appeared there were big dark circles under her eyes. Hopefully Anne Boleyn was having nightmares about being burned at the stake. Or at least having her head cut off. Or maybe she was just lying awake at night feeling sad because everything around her was so fake. The whore had riches, but Mary was _certain_ everyone hated her. A whore like Anne had not one true friend in the whole wide world.

"Lady Mary?" A gentle female voice broke in on the young girl's turbulent thoughts, taking her totally by surprise.

"What do you want?" Mary's rude words and angry scowl didn't seem to bother the beautiful blonde in the white gown.

"I'm sorry if I startled you, my lady. The king's court must seem strange and unfamiliar after such a long absence." The taller lady studied short, dark-haired Mary's weary face and travel-stained clothes with sympathetic blue eyes.

"Yes, it does seem strange not to see my mother sitting in her old place." Mary felt her eyes filling up, but she refused to cry in public. Instead she held her head high and looked the lady in white directly in the eye. "I suppose you've been ordered to keep me out of the king's sight?"

"Hardly that, my lady. His Majesty is very anxious to see you at tomorrow's tournament. I'm sure you'll want to see him too after a good night's rest. May I show you to your chamber?"

"Yes, I'd like that." Mary's anger subsided as she followed the older lady down the hall. Sure enough, she was being buried in a little-used wing, far from the royal suite. But at least her father had found a place for her. And the lady assigned to her seemed genuinely kind and thoughtful.

"Here we are, Lady Mary. Very small, but I hope it will do."

"Thank you." Mary slumped on a hard bench in her narrow chamber, watching the maidservants make up the bed under the careful supervision of the lady in white. She felt so sad that she longed to throw herself down on the bed and weep. And she was tired, totally worn out after such a long journey. And then all of a sudden something clicked.

"You're Jane Seymour, aren't you? You're the one who sent me . . ."

"You may go now, girls." Lady Jane's soft voice was kind, but it was also commanding. The two young maidservants hurried from the chamber. "Yes, I am Lady Jane, and I am at your service." The blonde beauty dropped into a deep curtsey. Mary envied her grace and poise, as well as the womanly curves of her grown-up figure. Her very soul seemed to shine through those soft, luminous blue eyes. "I am loyal to the old religion, Lady Mary. And to you, and to your poor dear mother, who is now locked away so cruelly."

"Bless you, Lady Jane." Mary was tired, and that was why her throat tightened up and a tear trickled down her cheek. But her anger remained, a painful lump stuck in her throat. "You say you are loyal to Queen Katherine. But you cannot be loyal to two queens at once."

"I love Queen Anne," Jane Seymour said simply. She rose to her feet and moved closer, as though to help the young girl undress for bed. "As a friend, I want what is best for her. But I don't think . . ."

Mary slapped her fingers away. "If you are her friend, you are none of mine."

"In that case, Lady Mary, I will wish you a restful night, and pleasant dreams." The lady in white curtseyed once again, and vanished from the chamber, her skirts swishing softly.

Mary Tudor threw herself down on the bed, and wept till her eyes were red and sore. Mary knew a lot about loneliness. But she had never felt this lonely before.


	13. It's Good To Relax

_Chapter Thirteen: It's Good To Relax _

Jane Seymour's heart was heavy as she left the small, narrow chamber where Mary Tudor was staying. Jane had seen much sadness in her life. But she had never seen so much anger and bitterness in the eyes of one so young.

The beautiful blonde made her way back to the royal wing of the palace, brooding over her own part in this tragic drama. Her pity for Mary was aggravated by a sense of guilt, for she was a lady in waiting to Queen Anne. It was reckless, ambitious Anne who was responsible for all poor Mary's misery. And though she tried to deny it, gentle Jane knew that she too had fallen under the young queen's spell.

Jane didn't always like the lady she served. Anne's ideas on morality, religion, and the role of women were new and frightening. The queen could be abrasive and impatient, even arrogant at times. Anne was rude and demanding, and Jane disliked these traits. Yet she felt drawn to Anne. The outspoken, impulsive queen was full of flaws, but somehow the defects in her character only made her more charming.

Anne was many things, but she was always full of surprises. When she slipped into the queen's bedchamber, Jane was expecting to be put to work as usual. It was her duty to help the queen undress, to be helpful and obedient. She was ready to jump the moment Anne snapped her fingers.

"Come in," Anne called from the bed. The queen wasn't standing there in her gown and jewels, waiting to be assisted. She had already undressed herself, right down to the white silk peignoir she wore to bed with the king. Anne was lying on her side, propped up with pillows, sipping from a goblet of wine. She was gazing deep into the crackling fire.

"Your Majesty, is something wrong?" Jane felt her cheeks redden as she approached the enormous bed. She was late to the queen's chamber because she had gotten caught up in waiting on Mary Tudor instead. Her soft heart had gotten in the way of her official court duty.

"Yes, something is wrong. I'm lonely." Anne stopped gazing sadly into the fire. She sat up with a spark in her green eyes. "I don't like being lonely, Jane. Nothing could be sadder than a glass of wine alone. Go pour yourself a drink, and come sit by me on the bed. I need company tonight."

Jane felt the same way. She needed a drink after all she had been through this evening. "His Majesty seemed very happy to see Charles Brandon at court again," she said carefully, sitting down on the bed. Her leg brushed Anne's. "Surely it is good to see the Duke of Suffolk back again, especially now that he too is a married man."

"Yes, the king loves to relax with friends." Anne drained her wine goblet, leaning back at her ease and exposing her barely clad bosom to Jane's wide blue eyes. "We won't see Harry tonight," she declared with a sigh. "Tonight he'll be drinking with Charles, the two of them boasting about how they love jamming it to us with their great big cocks!"

Jane squirmed, feeling the room grow warm all of sudden. "Your Majesty knows that a king has many duties. Sometimes it's good to relax, and to be with friends."

"Yes, it's good to relax." Anne reached up and began to unbutton the uncomfortable, tight-fitting white gown Jane had been wearing all day.

Meanwhile, down in the great hall, the king was not enjoying his reunion with Suffolk nearly as much as he had expected.

Charles had changed. He still laughed at all the old stories, but every time the conversation shifted to women he just started talking about his new wife. Catherine had her claws deep into him, the king thought in disgust. He even excused himself from the drinking when the hour struck midnight!

"Catherine doesn't like it when I come to bed drunk," the duke mumbled apologetically. "She gives me The Frown." Shuddering in a way that made the other men laugh, the magnificently built Duke of Suffolk bowed low and departed.

"Thou wast a pretty fellow when thou hadst no need to care for her frowning," the king muttered to himself. The moment that cheap whore Catherine spread her legs his best friend ran off and left him. Betrayed again, Harry thought. A king is always abandoned by those who love him most. Self-pity filled him, as warm and intoxicating as wine. No-one cared for him. Not even Charles. But the king's self-pity was already giving way to rage.

He had the royal jousting tomorrow, so he couldn't drink too much. He decided to go to bed early, and take Anne by surprise.


	14. Schemes And Secrets

_Chapter Fourteen: Schemes and Secrets _

"Anne!" roared the king, his drunken voice like the bellow of a bull. "Anne, I'm going to wear that slit out once and for all. Get ready, wife, for here I come!"

"Oh, shit!" Anne looked up from her prey, like a fox hearing the hunter's horn. Her eyes were shining, and her lips were wet from sucking on Lady Jane Seymour's stiff, pointed nipples and licking her full, rounded breasts.

"Oh, heavenly mercy!" Jane was lost in pleasure. She didn't even hear the king's heavy footsteps or his drunken bellow. It was only when she opened her eyes that she saw the frantic, fearful look on Queen Anne's face.

"In the closet! Quick! Run and hide, or it's the Tower for both of us!" Anne couldn't resist taking a swat at Jane's bare bum as the beautiful blonde hopped half-dressed into the closet. The crafty queen had planned to let Harry walk in and get a good eyeful of the two of them, knowing how it would light his fire. Yet at the last minute her legendary Boleyn nerve failed her. Was she really afraid? Or was it that she really didn't want to share sweet little Jane with anyone else?

Whatever the reason, Anne panicked. She dove under the covers and tried to lie still, as if she'd been asleep for hours.

Harry was drunk. But he wasn't a fool. When he kicked open the door, he spotted Anne at once. She was the quivering lump under the blankets. But he also spotted a lady's comb lying on the floor. It was pretty, but much too plain for Anne. Probably one of her maids had dropped it just now. Harry knew what that meant. He grinned, and approached the bed.

"Anne." His hoarse voice, which a moment ago had been full of brutal violence, now sounded gruff but tender. The patient, understanding royal husband, dealing with his high-strung wife's difficult moods. "Anne, you know why I'm here."

"I can't, Harry. It's not good for the baby!" Anne heard and felt the heavy weight of her husband, sitting down on the bed beside her. Annoyance and fear warred with guilty longing. She opened her eyes just a crack, but her back was to the king. All she could see was the full moon shining down from the tall bedroom window. The cold light seemed to shine right into her face, illuminating all her schemes and secrets.

She shut her eyes.

"I know you're afraid, Anne." Harry let his warm breath tickle the curve of her ear. "Afraid of losing the baby. Afraid of losing me." He raised his voice. "And it's only to make you feel safe and cared for that I've come to your bed tonight."

"Liar!" Anne's voice was sharp. But her eyes stung with tears. She tried shutting her eyes tighter, but they slipped out all the same, the hot wetness squeezing out of the corners.

"No, my precious love." Harry kissed the nape of her neck, knowing that was the fastest way to melt the ice. His words were smooth, just like his touch, and he'd had lots of practice. But Anne wasn't the only one listening.

"Precious Anne," he murmured, just loud enough for his voice to carry. "I swear to you that my true wife will never need to fear her king. It was only for your safety and comfort that I brought sweet, lovely Jane Seymour to court. Her innocence and goodness will never be soiled by me. I would kill anyone who attempted to corrupt such a pure maid."

"Please, Harry. Please go away!" Anne was sobbing by now, her shoulders heaving. Inside the closet Jane Seymour was crying too, ashamed that she had come between husband and wife. But she had to muffle her sobs by biting her palm.

"I will not go, Anne. I will not leave you alone tonight." Harry had his woman exactly where he wanted her. Proud Anne was a quivering puddle, yearning and completely vulnerable. That was how he liked her best. In a way it was a shame he had to lie to her to get her to behave correctly. When he was married to a _decent_ woman it would all be very different.

In the meantime . . .

His lips touched the back of her neck and moved along her stubborn shoulder. One hand stroked her breasts, and the other moved unerringly between her thighs; he found the most sensitive part of her and moved against her and in her until her half-formed protests turned into soft, stifled moans. The moon moved lower in the sky, tangling itself in her eyes until he closed them with surprisingly gentle kisses. Her body was the ocean and his was the wild wind - turning ripples into foam-capped breakers that soared and curved translucently before they crashed into oblivion against distant shores.

Anne's release was something that Jane could both hear and feel in her own flesh. Shameful, trembling with guilt, she crept from the royal chamber while the king and queen slept. Anne's royal husband had come back to her at last. She should have been happy, filled with joy for her friend.

Instead Jane wished that she were lying in that bed.


	15. Never!

_Chapter Fifteen: Never! _

Anne woke up with a huge smile on her face, feeling better than she had in ages. Last night had been like old times. Harry had really made her feel like a queen! Of course she was a queen, but it was different now that she knew the king was still ruled by her, and by his _passion_ for her. Anne had it made. Now all she had to do was give him a son . . .

She ran her hand over the roundness of her stomach, frowning a bit when she failed to detect any signs of life. Elizabeth had always been so restless and active in her womb, kicking like a mule! Thinking about her red-haired baby girl put the smile back on Anne's face at once. Everyone at Hatfield said that Bess was growing by leaps and bounds. Maybe when this foolish tournament was over she could tease Harry into giving her permission to sneak away from court and see her baby. She could bring Lady Jane Seymour with her, and have some company on the trip. Anne closed her eyes, her smile wider than ever.

While the queen was dozing in her bedchamber, Jane Seymour was returning from an early morning walk in the palace gardens. She knew all the best herbs by heart, and lusty Queen Anne loved a bit of spice in her morning cup. But the beautiful, sweet-natured blonde was also out early because she needed some time alone.

Last night she had seen first-hand how the king and queen still cared for each other. No matter how much they quarreled, Henry and Anne were meant to be together. Jane felt ashamed of her sinful ambitions, and her family's. She was no angel after all, it seemed. How could she have ever thought to compete with a fiery beauty like Anne? She needed to leave court, go back to the country and . . .

"Ah, Lady Jane. Unlike the queen, I see you're an early riser. Are you ready to watch me triumph this afternoon?"

"Yes, Your Majesty." Jane instantly dropped into a deep curtsey, even as her heart began pounding in her breast. She hadn't expected to see the king on her solitary walk. He was already dressed for the jousting match, his brightly polished armor shining in the early morning sun.

"You look unhappy, Jane. Is something troubling you?" Henry's handsome face wore a look of sincere tenderness and sympathy. It reminded Jane of how he had talked to Anne in bed last night – so very understanding and gentle.

"No, Your Majesty. It's just – last night – I'm certain that the queen loves you very much!" Jane's lovely face felt flaming hot all of a sudden. She had no right to speak for Anne, and she knew it. On the contrary, the king had every right to punish her for meddling in his married life.

Instead Henry threw back his head and laughed, sounding young and cheerful in the early morning garden. "Poor little Jane! Did my wicked wife sob on your shoulder last night? Is that what you were doing in my bedchamber?"

"Your Majesty, she is so lonely." Jane's soft voice was full of sympathy for Anne, yet she couldn't help remembering the hungry way the queen had suckled on her throbbing breasts. It was unnatural, said a nagging voice inside her. Even if it was only loneliness that made Anne ache for her company.

"Anne did more than cry on your shoulder, didn't she?" Suddenly the king was very close, his arms around her on the secluded path. "It's all right, Jane. You can tell me. Tell me everything. I'm here to protect your honor."

Lady Mary Tudor was walking in the garden too.

Mary had cried herself to sleep last night, feeling very sorry for herself. But when she woke up she felt much stronger. And she decided she had been acting in a manner unbecoming her birth. A Tudor never cried. More than that, she had been rude and churlish to Lady Jane Seymour. The beautiful lady in white had taken such good care of her, and had shown true loyalty and devotion. Of course she had to serve the whore, Anne Boleyn. Everybody at court did. But Mary sensed that Jane was different. She was pure and good, not lustful like the whore. When today's tournament was over, Mary planned to seek the lady out and . . .

Turning the corner, she was jolted by an unexpected sight. A knight in shining armor was kissing a beautiful damsel. It was a picture right out of a storybook. Some girls might have envied the golden-haired lady. Mary felt awkward, uncomfortable, as if she had just stepped in horse manure.

And then she recognized the two adults.

And fled in horror.

"What was that?" A soft whimper and a snapping twig woke Jane Seymour from a deep, almost drugged state of sensual bliss. But when she looked around no one was there.

"Nothing, my sweet." There was a smug pride in the king's hoarse voice. "It seems you are a proper woman after all."

"What do you mean?" Jane looked up into Henry's pale blue eyes, uncertain why she felt such a sudden chill. She had forgotten to call the king "Your Majesty," which was very unlike her.

Again, Henry VIII laughed. "Oh my sweet Lady Jane," he purred, "you had a close call. Anne has been trying for weeks to corrupt you – as she nearly corrupted me. Of course I knew all along that Anne was an unnatural monster. But I had no proof – until now. Now that you've confessed your sins."

"But – but – but the two of us were equally guilty, Your Majesty. I never meant to say anything bad about the Queen!" Jane gasped, realizing too late what a fool she had been. By confessing her own sins she had destroyed Anne!

"It's all right, my love, it's all right." Henry pulled her close again, that same hateful strength in his arms, that same loathsome tenderness in his voice. But this time Jane only shuddered in revulsion. "You will be my queen," he promised. "Naturally I won't have your name drawn into the muck. But there are others who have sinned with Anne behind my back, I'm sure of it! Cromwell will get the truth out of them, Anne will be punished, and then at last you and I will be free to marry."

"No!" For the first time in her life, Jane forgot about being a proper lady. She glared at the handsome king, her blue eyes shooting sparks. "Your Majesty may betray my mistress, the innocent and unhappy Queen Anne. The Secretary may torture innocent men into slandering her name. But I will never love you or marry you of my own free will. _Never!_"

The king didn't bother to contradict the teary-eyed blonde. He just watched her run away, knowing she was already his. He would protect her from sin always. Like a true knight, he made a low bow to the empty air where she had stood. "My sweet Lady Jane," he murmured. "When I see you again, your servant am I, and will humbly remain!"


	16. One More Time

_Chapter Sixteen: One More Time_

For the third time in one afternoon, Charles Brandon felt the agonizing thud of a blow to his solar plexus. All the air rushed from his lungs, and he lay flat on his back, staring up at the sky, terrified by the feeling of being unable to breathe.

_Control your fear, boy. Control it! Lie still and the pain will go. _

The voice was strong and clear. Not a great duke or a noble, but a plain soldier, a standard-bearer killed at the Battle of Bosworth Field. Charles had never known his father, yet in some strange way the rugged warrior spoke to him. In times of danger his father's voice gave him strength. Brandon kept his head, overcoming the fear with will and determination, just as his father taught him. Little by little, the breath came back to him. He became aware of noises, the panting of his worn-out steed, and the cheering of the bloodthirsty crowd.

He became aware of the king.

"One more time, Charles. One more time! Let's make it four out of five!" King Henry VIII pranced around on his steed with his lance held high, basking in the cheers of the crowd. He had unhorsed his best friend three times in a row, and he felt stronger than ever!

"Very well, Your Majesty. But let me breathe for a moment." Charles did not feel stronger than ever. Every bone in his body ached. His back was bruised and would be sore for weeks. Yet when his two young esquires rushed forwards to help him to his feet at last, he knew he would have to accept the challenge.

No-one was going to deny the king his sport on a beautiful day like this. Not even if it killed his best friend.

While his men prepared a fresh horse and a fresh lance, Charles looked up at the spectators in the royal section of the gallery. Queen Anne was looking fresher and more rested than she had in quite some time. Charles couldn't blame her for glowing with pleasure at her royal husband's triumph. She probably didn't even know that Harry was going to get rid of her. Lady Jane Seymour, on the other hand, looked absolutely miserable. She looked like a girl who had just learned some terrible secret. As for Harry's daughter, Lady Mary, she looked mad at the world, just like always.

Charles would have liked a smile or a wave from his own wife, Catherine. It would have been nice if she had run down from the gallery and begged the king to stop the jousting. But Catherine was looking so pretty Charles couldn't help smiling. She was facing away from him, shading her eyes and craning her neck to see what Queen Anne was wearing. Catherine loved expensive clothes. But she always looked good in them. Better than any woman in England!

When he got back on his horse, Charles made up his mind. No more jousting after this last round. He didn't want to offend the king, because he didn't want to lose favor and miss out on more lands and rewards. Catherine had been so excited about coming to court – she really deserved more nice clothes and more parties and more fun out of life. Charles spurred his horse, determined to keep a firm grip on his lance as the two mounted riders charged each other. They were on a collision course, their lances high, ready to smash on impact and send the other crashing to the earth.

Charles kept his grip. He kept his grip. He kept his grip. Then all at once there was a splintering crash. The brave duke fell with a thud, beaten again. But this time something was wrong. This time he heard a terrible scream.

And then everything went black.

_**A/N: Thank you everyone for the AMAZING reviews for this chapter - I especially loved the background on Charles' father, which I added immediately! **_


	17. A Naughty Secret

_Chapter Seventeen: A Naughty Secret_

Pain. Charles Brandon floated like a leaf in a still pond, but instead of floating on water he floated on pain. The pain was like a red pool. There was a brown haze on the edge of the redness, and he knew that if he drifted into the dark stillness he could escape the pool of pain. Sleep and never wake up.

Instead he fought to open his eyes.

"Mmm."

"Ah, gently! Gently, brave lord." A woman's soft voice, a cool hand on his forehead.

"Catherine?" His eyes opened. Pain struck like a whip. The dark-haired, pretty young girl looked like his wife. But her face was a white blur. Then all at once she came into focus.

"No, Your Grace." Mary Tudor smiled at him. But there was something off about her smile. She looked feverish, flushed and over-excited, a good girl hiding a naughty secret. Her smile was a little too knowing, her eyes a little too bright.

"Where's my wife? Where's my son, Edward? What has the king done with – _aiiieee!_" Pain screamed through him. Charles fell back on the bed, experiencing a terror no amount of training could overcome. The joust – he'd been hurt in the joust. But he remembered his lance finally hitting Harry solidly before he went down. What happened after that? Was the king hurt? Was the king _angry_ with him?

"Brave lord, be still." Mary stroked his arm, her blue eyes still glittering with that strange fire. "Your wife is in the chapel, praying for her brave lord. Your little son is safe and well, playing games in the garden with my new ladies in waiting. You have been unconscious for three days. You have a broken leg and three broken ribs, and your head you can probably tell has been badly battered. But you are safe, and still alive. You are still in favor, and still the Duke of Suffolk."

"Thank you." Charles was too well-mannered not to respond to the kindness of a pretty woman. "Thank you, Lady Mary."

"Ah, no more of that!" Mary's eyes twinkled. Her high-pitched giggle made him shiver. "Lady Mary is no more."

"What?" Charles' head was ringing. He _might_ have been badly hurt in the jousting. He might not be thinking clearly, or hearing properly. But he had an uneasy feeling that he was still in his right wits. Harry's unhappy daughter, on the other hand, was showing definite signs of madness. Her sour, unpleasant personality had altered greatly in three days. "Who . . . if I may ask, good mistress, who are you?"

"Oh, I'm still Mary, Your Grace. But now it's Queen Mary. Mary of England, at your service." The pretty girl in the dark blue dress rose to her feet, and dropped a clumsy curtsey. She wasn't as graceful as his Catherine, but she was a good deal fuller in the bust. Charles had an eye for such things, even as a married man.

"God save Your Majesty," Charles replied, a thin smile on his pale, unshaven face. Mad or not, Harry's neglected daughter was clearly desperate for attention. "If Your Majesty pleases, will you tell me who made you queen?"

"You did," the girl replied. Mary stood up tall and straight, drawing in a deep breath. Her blue eyes were calm and still. "You put a lance through my father's eye."


	18. Somebody Have Mercy

_Chapter Eighteen: Somebody Have Mercy_

"Now, Catherine, concentrate!" Charles Brandon tried to scold as his pretty young wife covered his face with kisses. He was still too badly hurt to sit up, but in a few days the doctors said he might walk the palace corridors with a stick. "What happened when Harry fell? Did he have any last words for me?"

"How do I know? I was worried about you, poor baby." Catherine giggled, and kissed her husband's cheek one final time before rearranging her skirts and perching demurely on the corner of the huge bed. "When you fell off your horse you just lay there, like a great big rock. That's all I saw. The king was yelling and screaming at the top of his lungs, but I don't think he said anything important. He just kept screaming 'my eyes, my eyes,' over and over again. Then he died."

"Poor Harry," the Duke of Suffolk sighed. He had killed his best friend, and no-one seemed to care. The new queen treated him as a royal favorite. His wife couldn't get enough of him. Sometimes his power over women was like a curse. "Did Harry – did the king die at once?"

Catherine nodded. "That awful man Cromwell ran up to him, just after – well, after the accident. Cromwell tried to pull out your lance, but the poor king just screamed and died."

"Forgive me, Harry," Charles murmured softly. The duke closed his eyes, praying for his oldest and dearest friend. "What happened next? How did Mary become queen?"

"Well," Catherine continued eagerly, "Of all people, it was Secretary Cromwell who started it. He looked up – oh, it was horrible, he had the king's blood all over his hands – and he shouted 'The king is dead. Long Live Queen Mary!' And then everyone, all the nobles and the commoners and the servants and the men-at-arms – they all started shouting for Mary too. And so it was decided!"

"They'll take suggestion as the cat laps milk." Charles was vaguely troubled. "I'll wager Queen Anne wasn't too happy."

Catherine giggled. "Oh, the Boleyn woman was sizzling like a fish in a frying pan! I was sitting close by, and I saw her face when the people started cheering for good Queen Mary. Anne stood up – her face was white with rage – and she pointed at our sweet young queen. 'Bastard,' she said. 'Bastard.' Our Mary stood up and faced her, looking ever so fierce and brave! But just then, Anne doubled over clutching her stomach. It was the baby, you see. She lost it then and there – along with her freedom, her family's power, and the crown of England! And that, my husband, is all I remember. The moment Anne keeled over I _ran_ to your side. Now don't I deserve a little reward for my loyalty?"

Charles couldn't help laughing at the way his minx of a wife put everything into basic terms. She was so much like a child! Except there was something very grown up and businesslike about the way she ministered to his pleasure for the rest of the afternoon. Flat on his back, he had no power to resist her clever, knowing hands or her cunning tongue. It seemed they made love for hours, until at last exhaustion overpowered him. A sated Charles fell asleep to the soft patter of footsteps as his giggling wife danced out the door.

When the duke woke up it was dark. There was a candle burning on the bedside table, and a young woman all in black was sitting in a straight-backed chair reading the Bible. This time Charles recognized Queen Mary at once.

"It's kind of you to watch over me, Your Majesty," the injured and bedridden duke said hoarsely. His beard was unshaven, his voice was still rough after his long sleep.

"You've rested well," the queen replied, closing her book. Her blue eyes flickered as she scanned his reclining figure. "Your wife begged to attend you this afternoon. Catherine said she could make you more comfortable." The queen paused, clearly aware of the tie between husband and wife. "We are glad she did, because we will soon need your great strength. You must help us purify England."

"I will do anything to serve Your Majesty," Charles declared with fervent loyalty. "Yet if I might offer a word of advice?"

"Please do."

The big, unshaven man lying in bed reached for the young monarch's pale and slender hand. "Take time to mourn, Mary. I see how you're holding yourself together. You're keeping everything inside. Be strong in public, if you need to. But let yourself cry in private. You've just lost your father."

"I will not!" After a single dazed moment, Mary whipped back her hand. "I have not shed a tear for my father, and I will not. My mother and I 'lost' him long ago. The wicked adulterer got what he deserved at the hands of his best friend. It was God's will, and His alone. We will speak of it no more."

Charles blushed deeply. "Your Majesty is merciful, but I . . ."

The queen cut him off impatiently. "Meantime I have wept myself to sleep these last three nights crying for my mother. She's still alive, you know. Katherine of Aragon still lives! But she is terribly ill. I must go to her at once. That is why I need you to act as regent, Your Grace. You must take charge here while I journey to the North."

"You do me a great honor, Your Majesty. I will keep England safe while you are away."

"I know you will." For the first time, Mary smiled at Suffolk. "You are a good man, with a good wife. I know I can count on you. Your first task – once I am out of London – will be to execute the traitors now imprisoned in the Tower."

Charles ignored his queasy stomach. "Of course, Your Majesty. Which traitors did you have in mind?"

"All of them." Mary waved a hand as she rose to her feet. "I don't care who goes first. Anne Boleyn, Thomas Boleyn, George Boleyn . . . and all who attend them. You can kill them in any order, but make sure they are all dead by the time I get back. I will have no heretics in England. And no rivals to my throne."

"But Your Majesty!" The big man tried to sit up, and felt a stabbing pain. "Are all the traitors to be killed without mercy? As a new monarch, it might be wise to show kindness and win the love of the people with mercy and generosity."

Mary turned at the doorway. "I believe I've already shown sufficient mercy, Your Grace. Oh, and your wife will be attending me on my northern progress. Alone in London, you may be tempted to fall back into old habits. But you will resist temptation while I am queen." A chilly pause. "Just as I do."

"Yes, Your Majesty." Charles sank back helplessly on the pillows. His wife was warm. His queen was cold and cruel. So why did a part of him want to melt Mary with kisses?


	19. The Stolen Seal

_Chapter Nineteen: The Stolen Seal_

_The Tower of London_

_Two weeks later_

"That's it, love." Anne Boleyn's hand guided Jane Seymour's slowly across the paper. "The straight line first, across the top, and then make the fishhook shape down to the bottom. That's the letter J!"

"J for Jane!" The beautiful blonde beamed at her companion. "Before long I'll be able to write whole sentences, not just sign my name." Jane grew thoughtful. "Learning to read and write is easy. I wonder why no one ever taught me before!"

"Men never think it's wise to give us an education, love. That's why we have to educate each other!" Anne pinched her companion's cheek, her green eyes twinkling. "Later on, the two of us can carve our names into the stone wall of our cell. Five hundred years from now, I want everyone to know that good Queen Anne taught gentle Lady Jane how to read. After I'm gone, I want people to remember the good I did as well as . . . as well as all the other stuff."

"There are many good deeds still ahead of you," Jane told her softly. "Your Majesty will have a long life full of kindness."

"Liar." Anne's smile was cynical and slightly crooked, but her emerald eyes shimmered with tears. Jane smiled back at her, sweetly and sincerely. They kissed with trembling lips.

Just then the two ladies heard the jailer's key turning in the rusty lock. They jumped apart just in time. The cell door opened with a ghastly screech, and the handsome Duke of Suffolk came strolling into their chamber.

"Well, good morning, ladies!" Charles Brandon was cheerful. "I see you've been practicing your writing? That should come in very handy. It might even help you gain your freedom!"

"What do you mean, Your Grace?" Anne sat up straight on the hard bench she'd been sharing with her friend, as if she were still Queen of England and not a powerless prisoner. "You may bring our guest a chair, Lady Jane."

"Very good, Your Majesty." Jane curtseyed. There were no chairs, but Anne was far too grand to surrender to poverty.

"Please don't bother," Charles said smoothly. "To tell the truth, Mistress Boleyn, you might as well stay where you are and keep your ink pot ready. I need your signature on this important official document."

"I am not Mistress Boleyn, I am . . . I mean, I _was_ Queen of England, till some idiot drove a lance through my dear Harry's eye. Now my daughter Elizabeth is queen, even if her place has been stolen by that mousy little Mary."

"Mary is queen now," the duke said sternly. "She is the rightful ruler of England, and she wants to show mercy to you and your daughter. If you will but sign the papers . . ."

"This is a confession!" Anne shrieked. Her green eyes flashed lightning, and for a moment Jane feared she would actually leap from her seat and attack the duke, who was twice her size. But then she laughed, looking proud and scornful and thrillingly brave.

Jane shivered with admiration.

"You expect me to sign this?" Anne asked. "You are even a bigger fool than Harry always said you were, Charles. You expect me to say that my marriage was never valid, that my daughter Elizabeth is a bastard, and that I used witchcraft to entice the poor dead king to my bed!"

Jane was shocked. "But those are all lies. Horrible lies!"

"Well, better horrible lies than the horrible truth," Anne smirked. "Harry was a fool who died in a horrible accident because his best friend couldn't hold his lance steady."

"Enough of that!" Charles knew he was a fool to let the wretched woman get to him. But he couldn't help it. Anne looked so cool and calm, not frightened at all. Her lovely blonde lady-in-waiting was gazing at her with devotion. It burned Charles to see that the two women loved each other.

If he had been thrown in the Tower, would his pretty little wife have stuck by him like Lady Jane?

"You're a clever woman, Anne Boleyn. But you don't always listen. So let me make this very clear to you. Queen Mary wants you dead. She wants to burn you as a heretic whore. She has the power to do it. And if you die, your father, your brother, and all your friends will burn as well."

Anne didn't flinch. But her exquisite face turned deadly pale. "I will not betray my daughter. Elizabeth _will_ be England's queen. If I have to lay down my life to save her, so be it!"

"Damn it, woman! Why must you reject the queen's mercy?"

"She's not a queen," Anne snarled. But then, much to her astonishment, her gentle lady-in-waiting interrupted her.

"Mary's mercy is really your mercy, Your Grace," Jane told him gently. "Anne and I both know that you are behind this offer. And we are very grateful! But for your sake, Your Grace, we beg you to go to the young woman and tell her plainly that murder is a terrible sin. You must save her!"

"Save _her__?_" Anne exclaimed. "That makes no sense!"

Charles just stared at Jane. Her soft words confused him too. "Lady Jane, you are not included in the list of traitors. Queen Mary wishes you no harm. You may leave the Tower at any time and return to your family in the North."

"But I won't." Jane's mild blue eyes gleamed with pride. "No Seymour abandons a friend. No Seymour tells lies. I will abide with my fair queen until she is free once more."

Charles felt like shaking the stunning blonde back and forth. "There's nothing to stop me from having you dragged out of here in chains," he growled.

"Nothing but your conscience," Jane replied, very softly.

The Duke of Suffolk ignored the sting of those gentle words. "I'll have you sent back to your family in disgrace. Anne will die alone. And when she's gone you can raise her nameless bastard as a Seymour."

"No!" Hot-tempered Anne finally snapped, flinging herself at the tall, strong duke. Yet instead of fighting she fell at his feet, throwing her slender arms around his thick trunk. "Don't take Jane away, Your Grace! Please! You can do anything to me, but don't take Jane away. Please, please . . ."

Charles was confused. He was excited by having haughty Anne Boleyn grovel at his feet, but he was also ashamed. He didn't want to hurt these two women. He didn't want to hurt anyone. Everything was spinning out of control! It took a moment for him to gather his wits and shove her away.

"You have just three days to make a full confession," he snarled, while a prostrate Anne wept face-down on the floor. "After that I will obey the lawful orders of good Queen Mary and have you all put to death!"

The cell door slammed. The two unhappy ladies heard the rusty key turn stiffly in the lock.

"There, there," Jane soothed, patting her companion on the shoulder. "We'll stay together whatever happens, I promise!"

"Sweet Jane," Anne sighed, rolling over and springing lightly to her feet. "How I do admire that honeyed tongue of yours!" With a triumphant laugh, the wily woman who had once bewitched King Henry VIII tossed a heavy, cylindrical object to her lady-in-waiting.

"Why, it's the Duke of Suffolk's official seal!" Jane's blue eyes went wide with astonishment. "Anne! Did you just steal the duke's seal on purpose?"

Anne grinned. "My father always said I had the makings of a champion cutpurse. Come on, we've got a lot of work to do. We need to start writing letters right away!"

_**A/N: Sorry it's been so long between chapters! Now that Anne and Jane are back in action, please review and tell me what you'd like to see next! **_


	20. A Royal Rescue

_Chapter Twenty: A Royal Rescue_

Thomas Cromwell's rules for success:

_1.) Don't get hung up on "right" vs. "wrong."_

_2.) Don't be afraid to get your hands dirty. _

_3.) Don't expect to keep regular hours. Most big breaks happen after everyone else has gone home. _

The message looked genuine, all right. It had the Duke of Suffolk's official seal. Cromwell opened it up and read it by the light of a single midnight candle, feeling instinctively that he was one step closer to absolute power.

_Anne Boleyn and her crew are too dangerous to live. We need to get rid of them fast, without a lengthy public trial or a gory public execution that might stir up the London mob. Take them from the Tower tonight. Ferry them by boat down to Strickland's Marsh. Finish them quietly. Do as you are told and Queen Mary will reward you greatly._

The letter had the official seal of the Duke of Suffolk. But Thomas Cromwell wasn't stupid. Charles Brandon had always hated Anne Boleyn, true. But Brandon hated him too. The man from Putney sensed a double-cross. So he wrote a letter of his own to someone who owed him a favor, a handsome gentleman in young Queen Mary's court. The new monarch was traveling in the North now, out of reach of London. And Charles Brandon's wife was with her.

_4.) Get the job done. But cover your own behind._

"Don't I get a last request? Last words? Anyone? Anyone?" While everyone else in the boat was sobbing, or praying, Anne alone seemed to take the whole affair as a sort of joke. The others were too weak from fear to do anything but lie in the bottom of the boat like dead fish. Only Anne was standing up, right next to Cromwell in the bow of the boat. Her hands were tied behind her back, but her gleaming green eyes peered fearlessly into the murky dark.

"You're not afraid of anything, are you?" Cromwell's piggy little black eyes held a trace of genuine admiration.

"Our queen is never afraid!" Jane Seymour squeaked, from where she lay quivering at the bottom of the boat.

"Silence, whore!" Cromwell kicked the beautiful blonde in the ribs, his natural cruelty coming out in the remote swamp.

"Pig!" Anne spit in Cromwell's face. He slapped her face, hard. She tumbled backwards and landed on top of Jane.

"You're the pig." Cromwell drew a long knife. His grinning henchmen did likewise. "It's time for all you pigs to – _urk!"_

"What happened?" Jane asked. "Where did all those arrows come from?"

"I'll tell you what happened," Anne growled into her friend's ear. "Exactly what I had planned. Captain Macheath, is that you?" The queen shouted into the darkness of the swamp.

Silence.

"Anne, this is all your fault," scolded selfish old Thomas Boleyn. Anne's father was lying tied up next to her brother in the stern of the small skiff. "If you had been kinder to Princess Mary – if you had shown the proper meekness when King Harry was angry with you – if you had been more obedient and easier to control as a child . . ."

"I reckon family life has been a disappointment for both of us, papa. Thanks, though. Thanks for nothing!" The night was dark, and Anne's scornful words were so biting that no one heard the tears in her voice. No one but Jane Seymour.

"Your father is afraid," the blonde beauty whispered. "Don't be angry, Anne. Not everyone has your courage."

"_No-one_ has a heart like yours," Anne whispered back. The two devoted friends were near to kissing when suddenly there was a shout from the shore.

"Queen Anne! Queen Anne! For life! For life!"

"Ah, Mack's men to the rescue." Anne raised her voice again, shouting at the top of her lungs. "Come and untie me, you fools! London is miles away and we've only got a few more hours before dawn."

"Anne, who are these people?" her father asked, speaking in a much more respectful tone of voice. A gang of outlaws had pulled the boat to shore and were cutting his bonds.

"Oh, just some friends of mine. I met them when I was running around London disguised as a boy! After I stole the Duke of Suffolk's seal, I got word to them to meet us here. Then I sent a fake note to Cromwell ordering him to dump us in the swamp. Quite a royal rescue, don't you think?"

"Face it father, Anne's much smarter than you are," George Boleyn said, gazing at his sister. "Much braver too."

"And prettier!" Anne playfully patted her light-brown hair.

"No, I'm the beauty in the family," George replied.

All of the rescued party laughed, realizing that they would live for another day. But Queen Anne took Jane's hand and squeezed it tightly. For the real danger was yet to come.


	21. Feeling Useful

_Chapter Twenty-One: Feeling Useful_

Charles Brandon expected the young queen to be nervous and scared, or perhaps just cold and stiff. Much to his surprise, Mary Tudor proved to be a natural.

"Oh, yes. Oh, that's splendid! More to the left please. Oh, exactly like that. Oh, that's perfect!" Though refined and very ladylike, the queen's breathless voice betrayed her growing excitement.

"Your Majesty, you have great flair. But it isn't necessary for you to supervise the hall set-up personally. I can arrange the chairs and tables." Charles had to grin at the idea of a duke and a queen fighting over the right way to set up an audience chamber.

"Yes, but if I leave it to you, Your Grace, my subjects will be seated miles away. I want things to be cozy and informal, intimate. Remember, the people of the North are my people!"

"That they are." Charles couldn't help smiling back at the beautiful young queen. Mary had really blossomed in the last few weeks. Her cheeks were flushed and her dark blue eyes sparkled with excitement. Though primly dressed in rustling black silks, the lush-figured little brunette had both dignity and a surprising degree of womanly allure. It was hard to believe how quickly Mary had assumed power, traveling immediately to the north of England where her support was strongest. Watching her take command filled Charles with a yearning, bittersweet satisfaction, a mix of emotions so strong it was almost painful.

The Duke of Suffolk had loved King Henry VIII. The two of them had been close friends since childhood. Yet the changes in the king had brought him much private agony in the past few years. Harry had turned cruel, unpredictable, and almost irrational at times. His accidental death at the jousting tournament had probably been a blessing for England. Yet guilt gnawed at Charles night and day. It was his lance that had slain the king . . .

Shaking off his gloomy thoughts, Charles tried to focus on the pageantry and pomp of the royal ceremonies. The presentations were now in full swing, and everything was going swimmingly. As each great noble of the north came forward, the proud knights and barons bent their knees, kneeling on splendid carpets before the beautiful young woman in black. Yet in every case Mary came forward with both her hands extended, smiling warmly and bidding the nobility to feel at home in her royal presence. And her ladies in waiting swiftly led them to their seats, in a way that made them feel favored and honored, like friends. Like family.

Mary was so good at her new job that she really needed no assistance at all. All Charles had to do was stand behind her throne and marvel at her triumph. His heart was filled with joy, but also sadness. _I would have died to protect you, Harry. And I would die now, for this lovely young queen who is so much like you. Yet she has no need of me . . . no need . . . no need . . ._

Just then the ceremonies were disrupted by a burst of noise and clamor at the entrance of the great hall.

"Your Majesty! Treason, Your Majesty! Rebellion has broken out in London!" The young squire staggered forward, his riding clothes spattered with mud and his face white with strain and fear. It was obvious that the pale, exhausted royal courier had ridden all night from London. He looked ready to collapse.

"Get him some wine," Charles snapped, instantly taking charge of the situation. There was a time for pomp and ceremony, and there was a time for action.

"Can you speak, dear?" Mary allowed her ladies to settle the young man on a bench, putting cushions beneath his head and giving him wine. A queen couldn't afford to be too hands-on, as much as she might want to be. Yet the moment the poor wretch was settled Mary was standing by his side, holding his hand, talking gently to him like a sister comforting an injured brother.

"It was the Boleyns," the messenger gasped. "Somehow they escaped from the Tower of London. They've got – the Lord Mayor on their side. And the merchants – and the guilds – and the reformers in the church. They seized the Tower two nights ago. The city gates have been shut. The rebels mean to proclaim the baby Elizabeth as queen and declare Your Majesty a traitor!"

"No . . . no, it can't be!" Mary reeled backwards, hearing Anne Boleyn's shrill laughter ringing in her ears. Her cheeks burned, yet her hands and feet were like ice. The room seemed to spin around her, going faster and faster until everything went black.

"Look to the queen, there!" Charles was at her side in an instant. Mary fainted, and the Duke of Suffolk caught her in his arms, feeling useful for the first time all day.


	22. Rag Doll

_Chapter Twenty-Two: Rag Doll_

_Whitehall Palace_

_Two weeks later_

"Damn it!" Anne Boleyn slammed her small fist down on the polished oak table. "I don't want talk – I want action! Why haven't we marched on Mary yet? Why hasn't the mighty army of Queen Elizabeth invaded the north?"

The three Seymour men facing her across the table all wore grim expressions, their craggy features cold and expressionless. It was obvious they didn't like taking orders from a woman, especially one as haughty and hot-tempered as Anne.

Finally Jane Seymour's father spoke. "Begging your pardon, Your Highness, but it is no easy thing to raise an army and march it north. It takes weeks merely to train men to march together, to handle their swords and guns and pikes. Then there are the problems of supply, food for men, forage for horses, tents for officers and carts and wagons for the wounded and for other supplies."

"But we hold London!" Anne snapped. "We have all the money on our side, all the merchants, all the guilds, all the people of the largest and wealthiest city in the kingdom!"

"Money doesn't march," grunted one of the younger Seymours. "Money doesn't fight and bleed, Your Highness. The truth is, the London mob may love to cheer for you and little Elizabeth as you ride out of the palace each morning in your carriage, but none of them is ready to march off and die. Certainly not in the far north, away from their own city."

Anne scowled. "We have all the money, and Mary has all the soldiers, is that it?"

"Very nicely put, Your Highness," said old Tom Seymour, smiling as though he wanted to pat Anne on the head and call her a good little girl. "It's really a perfect stalemate."

Anne was very close to losing her temper with the Seymour men. She knew that like all the great nobles of the North they considered the Boleyn family to be vulgar upstarts. She also knew that they might leave her at any time and switch their loyalty to so-called Queen Mary. If that happened, she would die – and so would her baby girl, Elizabeth, who was the one true queen of England. Even if she was but a babe!

"Good morning, dear father. Good morning, brothers." A soft voice broke the angry and dangerous tension that simmered in the council chamber. Jane Seymour slithered into the room wearing a blue silk gown, her soft beauty seeming to glow even in the feeble light of the tall wax candles.

"What have you got there, Lady Jane?" Anne spoke gruffly, wanting to remind the Seymours that she was still the Dowager Queen and that Jane was technically still her servant. But her rage and temper were already melting into softer emotions. The gentle blonde with the warm smile and luscious curves always had such a strange effect on her.

"This rag doll is a favorite of little Elizabeth's," the Seymour girl explained, stitching at a rip in the little doll's stuffing. "Last night our dear little queen couldn't sleep, so I stayed up with her and sang to her for an hour or so. And she asked me as a favor to stay with her in the nursery. This morning she was sleeping peacefully, so I thought it safe to come to council. But I did want to repair her little doll, as I promised!"

"Yes, as you promised." Anne shook her head, trying to clear away the very odd notion that Jane was her wife and that Elizabeth was the babe they'd had together. It was only because the doll she cradled in her arms looked so much like a real babe. Yes, that was it, Anne thought a bit dizzily.

"Mistress Jane always keeps her promises, gentlemen," she said, her voice rough and a bit unsteady. "And I think that it is high time that you kept yours! We march for the North!"

"Oh, but Your Highness, baby Elizabeth is too young for such a journey," Jane put in softly. "And you and I would be separated if fighting was to start. How would I endure it?"

"We have to separate," Anne snapped, scowling because the moment she said the words she felt oddly like weeping. Yet thankfully Jane Seymour remained quite calm.

"Maybe it would be better if I went to the North instead of you," Jane suggested gently. "Mary has never liked you, but she is very fond of me. And I am the one person in the world you know you can trust. Perhaps I can persuade poor Mary to step aside, and recognize Elizabeth as the true queen."

"Perhaps pigs can fly," muttered one of Jane's brothers.

"Silence, boy!" said Jane's father. "Our Jane has made a very wise suggestion, Your Highness. We need time to prepare the army, and negotiation is the safest course. Jane can talk woman-to-woman with Mary, and win her over."

"I don't like it," Anne muttered. "Suppose it's a trap? Suppose Mary captures Jane and keeps her as a hostage?"

"Better me than Elizabeth," Jane told her quietly. "You need time with your daughter, Your Highness. You need to stay here and keep London from losing hope. You understand the city folk, just as I understand the nobles of the North. Trust in me, dearest queen, for I will never fail you. Trust me, Anne."

"Trust you," Anne repeated, staring into Jane's blue eyes with the most stupid look on her face. Why did she always get so muddled when Jane talked in that soft voice? The Seymour girl's looks and her gentle ways affected Anne like a drug. All she had to do was get a whiff of her perfume or glance at her lush round bosom and her wits went begging.

"Well, it's all settled then," cried old Thomas Seymour, in a hearty voice. "Don't you worry, Lady Anne, we'll have my daughter back to you in no time."

"In no time," Anne repeated. The Seymours had all bowed and took their leave before she came back to her senses.

All that was left was the little rag doll.


	23. The Red Flames

_Chapter Twenty-Three: The Red Flames_

It started the way it always did for Thomas Culpepper. He was riding along in the woods, minding his own business, when all at once there was a lady just waiting for him, all ripe and ready for him to make love to her.

"Good morning, fair damsel," he said, using all the charm that he possessed.

"Good morning, good sir," replied the pretty lady on the white horse. "Are you one of Queen Mary's gentlemen?"

"That I am my fairest flower. And are you one of the good queen's virtuous and untouched ladies in waiting?"

The lady giggled, and it was clear she was far from innocent. "I am the Duchess of Suffolk, thank you very much. I am not in service to anyone but my husband, the duke!"

"Then what a fool His Grace must be, letting such a radiant treasure as you wander in the woods unescorted. Let me ride with you back to the royal encampment. The woods are dangerous now. The foul Seymours are on the march."

"My husband will stop them," the pretty little duchess said, with an arrogant toss of her dark curls. "My husband defeated faithless, cruel King Henry and struck him dead with a single blow! Now gentle Queen Mary rules instead."

"Blessed day for England," Culpepper said, smirking behind the lady's back. They soon came to a stream, and he dismounted from his steed and led hers across. Somehow he managed to make her fall into his arms by accident.

"Unhand me, sir," she cried. But she was giggling.

"My price is a kiss," It was only a game at first. But somehow when he kept on kissing her the slim woman in white started struggling and scratching. Not because he kissed her. Women always liked it when he kissed them. Unless they were just lying, faithless, whores. Or unless they were mad.

"Help me! Someone please help! Help!" the mad duchess screamed, clawing at his face as though she wanted to make him ugly forever. Sometimes women did that to a man they loved, just so no other woman would ever want them.

"Damn you, keep still!" Culpepper hated how the red flames always started in his head at times like this. He saw himself shaking the woman, striking her, yet he felt as though it were really someone else. He didn't want to hurt her. He didn't want to draw his hunting knife and slash her throat. But the red flames just kept rising higher and higher and higher.

Afterwards it was bad. He stood looking down at Suffolk's dead wife and wondered what the duke would do to him. The red flames died away as fast as they came, and he felt powerless and afraid. Just like when he was a child and mother used to lock him in the shed and do things to him. That was when the voices came. They were still out there, whispering, whispering, calling to him to stop . . .

Thomas Culpepper ran to his horse and mounted, meaning to ride for the coast and escape. But the whispers became shouts, and the shouting became a pain that was like a terrible stabbing agony between his shoulder blades. He fell from his horse, dead, the red flames dying with him.

"Good shot, Jane!" cried Sir Thomas Seymour.


	24. Don't Cry Daddy

_Chapter Twenty-Four: Don't Cry Daddy_

Like a mighty oak shaken by a summer storm, Charles Brandon seemed to sway slightly as he beheld the mangled carcass lying on the carpet in the queen's royal tent.

"Catherine . . . my darling . . . oh my God . . . Catherine!"

"We found her in the forest, Your Majesty," old Sir Thomas Seymour said grimly, addressing Queen Mary. "My daughter Jane killed the villain who was ravishing her with a single arrow. But when we came upon her it was too late."

"Catherine . . ." Charles sobbed. He was on his knees now and holding the beautiful woman in his arms. His sobs grew louder and louder.

"And you're certain it was one of my gentlemen at arms who performed this vile deed?" Mary wasn't rushing to comfort the bereaved Duke of Suffolk. She was focused solely on the grim task at hand – negotiating with the Seymours and consolidating her power in England. So that she could restore the true faith to this misguided island.

So that she could crush the whore, Anne Boleyn.

"We have the dagger that the villain used, Majesty." Young Edward Seymour stepped forward, handing the bloody hunting knife to the queen with the hilt extended. "Notice how the initials 'TC' are engraved upon the hilt."

"Catherine!" Now the Duke of Suffolk was lying on the floor, sobbing and babbling incoherently, as if the dead woman in his arms were still his fickle and enticing young sweetheart.

"Oh, for Christ's sake Suffolk, get a grip on yourself!" Queen Mary couldn't bear the way the strong handsome duke kept sniveling and moaning and howling and giving way to his emotions. If she could have analyzed her feelings, perhaps she might have found that she didn't like displays of grief because her own sadness was locked away deep inside.

"I will see to him, Your Majesty," said a soft, gentle voice. Though her golden hair was coming down and she was wearing a crumpled gray riding dress spattered with mud, Lady Jane Seymour looked even more beautiful than the queen remembered her. When her blue eyes shone like that, it was hard to believe she had the heart of a Seymour, or that she had killed the villain Culpepper with a single arrow.

"You will not," Queen Mary snapped, putting one arm out to stop the stunning blonde beauty from comforting the fallen man. The plump brunette snapped her fingers, attracting a pair of young page boys in her royal livery. "You and you, take His Grace to his own tent, and see to it that he and his little boy are well cared for and have everything they need."

"Edward . . . my poor little boy . . . oh, Catherine!" Completely distraught, the duke was dragged away.

"Your family and I have business to discuss, Lady Jane," the queen said, once the grieving father was gone. "Come, all of you, and join me at my council table."

"We long to see an end to violence and division in this land," Lady Jane said breathlessly, as the council began. It seemed odd to be talking affairs of state, just like a man, while in a nearby tent she could hear Suffolk and his little boy howling in grief. Every instinct in her body told her to comfort the duke, to run to the man's side.

_He's a man, but he's not your man_, whispered a sly voice inside her head. Even as her brothers and her father negotiated with the queen, Jane held back a smile. The voice in her head was Anne's, reminding her that she could decide for herself how much or how little of a woman she wanted to be. She had no man, but she had Anne . . . and the Dowager Queen was as brave and bold as any man.

"What are your feelings, Lady Jane?" asked the queen. "After we dispose of all the traitors, will the people of London welcome me as their queen?"

"I'm sorry, Your Majesty," Jane blushed. In the distance she could hear a little boy crying, yet at the same time trying to be brave. _Don't cry, daddy. Daddy please don't cry_. "I was thinking of the terrible pain and grief the Duke is going through with his son. He loved his wife very much, it seems."

"Yes, well, my ladies tell me that poor Catherine always was a bit of a whore," Queen Mary said callously. "I have no use for such creatures, and no pity for the fools that love them."

"Your Majesty!" Jane was shocked, and she ignored her father's warning look. "It is one thing to punish murderers and rapists, to prevent violence and hate from spreading. Even I, as weak and fragile as I am, know what it is to kill a man. But if you think to restore the people of this land to faith, you must begin with love, mercy and charity."

"I will show mercy to all who kneel and beg my forgiveness," Mary said stiffly. "All except for one."

Jane shuddered, and from the tent far off she heard the same pitiful words over and over. _Don't cry daddy_.


	25. Rivers of Blood

_Chapter Twenty-Five: Rivers of Blood _

"I'd rather drink poison than shake hands with that bitch!" Mary Tudor's plump face went red with fury. Just ten miles from London, her royal cavalcade had been stopped in its tracks. The country lane was barricaded with all manner of wagons and carts, and there were bowmen in the trees.

"Your Majesty, the Dowager Queen could have had you shot just now." The handsome Duke of Suffolk gave the angry young queen one of his most devilish and beguiling smiles, gesturing to the long black arrow protruding from a nearby oak. "Anne's archers don't miss."

"It's _your_ fault we were taken by surprise," Mary grumbled, shooting a sideways glance at her dashing male escort. Charles Brandon looked so damnably handsome all the time, but especially when he was in shining armor. "You were supposed to be in charge of security for our march south, yet ever since your wife died you've either been off in the woods with your little boy or whispering in Lady Jane Seymour's ear."

"Jealous, Your Majesty?" Charles still wore his easy smile, but there was a hint of anger in his dazzling blue eyes. "Perhaps if you had a woman's tender and forgiving heart I might have been whispering in your ear last night."

"I know you didn't sleep with Lady Jane," Mary gritted out, through tightly clenched teeth. She was hot and tired and jealous, and battling Charles while worrying about Anne gave her a splitting headache. She swayed in the saddle, suddenly overcome by dizziness.

"Ho there!" Charles called out, summoning the men at arms. "You, go to the Dowager Queen, and tell her that the Queen of England will meet with her tomorrow morning. You, take charge of the guard and be very sure no infiltrators enter our perimeter. Tonight I will watch over the queen myself."

"You have no right to be giving orders, sir." Mary swatted feebly at Charles' hands as he lifted her gently from her horse. Before she knew quite what was happening, he had carried her back to the clearing where her royal tent was already being set up for the night. All around she could hear soldiers going on guard to protect her while she rested. And from the murmuring voices it seemed none of them wanted war with London or Anne Boleyn . . . none except her.

"You're not used to riding all day in the hot sun," Charles told her, once they were inside the cool and shady tent. "It wears on a person, especially one not used to armor. You need a bath, and then you need to rest."

"What do you and Lady Jane talk about when you're alone?" Mary asked, after she had been bathed and dressed in a fine silk bed robe. It was evening now, and she could hear the men singing around the camp fires. It seemed everyone was grateful for a chance to rest. She had been pushing them hard, punishing them. And punishing herself as well.

"Please, Your Majesty, don't go there." Charles put his big and heavy arm across her path, keeping her within the tent. He had bathed as well and was now in more comfortable clothes. Mary's eyes dropped to his hairy chest, barely concealed. Her nose twitched as she breathed in the cologne he wore. Her insides churned with uncertain desire.

"Why are you protecting me?" Mary sat down on her camp bed with a thump, her solid weight making her feel awkward. She wasn't a skinny thing like the Boleyn whore. She had a woman's body, just no knowledge of a woman's pleasures. "You don't really believe in my cause, Charles. Don't lie."

"I don't believe in any cause, Your Majesty." Charles gave her that easy smile again, the one that hid so much of his heart. He sat down beside her on the bed, his motions as fluid and graceful as hers were awkward and inexperienced. "I only know that you are my own beloved queen. I know you have been sad, very sad, and you deserve to be happy." He kissed the queen, and ran the back of one hand lightly down her pale face. Her first kiss was like rain on parched earth. "And I will do anything to make that happen."

"You will?" Mary squeaked. She wanted Charles Brandon to kiss her again more than she wanted to go on breathing. "Would you kill Anne Boleyn if I asked you to?"

Charles studied her closely. "No, I would not. It would be bad for England, bad for my honor. And it would be bad for you."

"Then you . . . are a traitor." Mary forced the word from lips that seemed clumsy and swollen. Proud, royal lips that had never been kissed before. That might never be kissed again.

"I loved your father, and I love you." Brandon stood up. "But I will not live to see you become the monster he became. Sweet dreams, lovely Mary."

Mary fell back on the bed, and stared at the silken ceiling of her tent. But she saw only flames, and rivers of blood.


	26. Loving Hands

_Chapter Twenty-Six: Loving Hands_

It was a hot summer day, yet the atmosphere inside the royal tent was icy cold.

"Your Majesty," said Anne Boleyn, making the slightest curtsy to young Queen Mary.

"Your Grace," Mary replied, giving her stepmother a frigid smile while inclining her head less than a fraction of an inch.

"We have today a great opportunity," announced the Duke of Suffolk. "To save England from war and rebellion, to save our people from suffering and loss. To keep the sins of murder and hate from rotting away our own lives and families from within." As Charles said the last few words, he gave his beautiful young queen a sharp and almost fatherly sort of warning look.

"Our Savior commands us to love those that hate us," Mary replied, sinking into a tall carved wooden chair. The young queen was tired after a sleepless night. She couldn't fight Charles and Anne and her rebellious subjects and her own conscience all at the same time. After a long night of tossing and turning, tormented by loneliness and guilt, she realized that the burdens of power were far too great to bear alone. She was bone tired, yet she forced herself to hold her head up high and to speak like a queen. "We must love those who hate us, and forgive those who have injured us."

"Amen," said Charles Brandon. He was standing behind the queen's chair, and he rested his strong hands on her bare white shoulders. The gesture was both protective and slightly controlling, as though the royal rank was reversed and the big, handsome duke ruled the shy young queen instead of the other way around.

"I see Your Majesty has already forgiven some of your enemies," Anne Boleyn said slyly. Her cat-like green eyes missed nothing as she sat in the chair facing the queen. "Isn't it remarkable that the very same man who killed your father with a clumsy lance is now your closest counselor and . . . friend?"

Mary opened her mouth to reply, but before she could get the words out someone else silenced the shameless, stunningly beautiful Boleyn whore.

"Hush, sweet Anne," said Lady Jane Seymour, her beautiful white hands resting on the dowager queen's slim shoulders in exactly the same protecting and just slightly controlling fashion as Charles used with the troubled young queen. "King Henry's death was the will of God, brought on by his faithless cruelty towards all who loved him. All suffered at his hands, including our good Queen Mary and me and you. And just as you forgave me for taking your place in the king's fickle affections, so now does Queen Mary forgive you for taking her own royal mother's place."

"Yes," Queen Mary said abruptly, as though she had been sleeping and Jane's gentle words had jogged her awake. "Yes, I forgive you . . . Anne."

"And I forgive you," Anne replied, with a little smirk, as though everything was going her way and it was all thanks to her own cleverness. "But will you acknowledge my daughter Elizabeth as the only true heir to the throne?"

"You must acknowledge me as queen first," Mary said with a frown. Charles had gone over the terms with her very carefully in the morning. The duke was standing behind her now, lending her silent support. Just the feel of his warm, strong hands on her shoulders made her feel calm and serene. "We will forgive each other, Anne. You will acknowledge me as queen, and I will acknowledge Elizabeth as my one legitimate heir. You will not be imprisoned and you will not lose any lands or wealth. But you are never again to show your face at court. You and Elizabeth will live at Hatfield and be suitably cared for in a style and comfort befitting your high rank."

"Suitably cared for!" Anne's green eyes flashed emerald fire. "You mean to have us locked up in the country? Confined all alone in some dreary castle?"

"You won't be alone, Anne," Lady Jane Seymour said softly. "You and baby Elizabeth will be surrounded by loyal companions . . . in loving hands." Anne's anger sputtered out like a fire doused by water. Jane's soothing voice and her slim white hands both seemed to calm her.

"I agree to the terms you offer . . . Your Majesty." Anne's grumbling faded as her beautiful blonde companion gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze.

"No one should be alone," the Duke of Suffolk rumbled. His hands were working the same magic on the queen's shoulders, his fingers working to unlock the tense muscles of her neck and back.

"Our meeting is now ended, and parchments shall be sealed and signed to commemorate this happy day." Mary closed her eyes, feeling peace wash over her. She would never have her vengeance. But in the years to come she would have peace of mind and untroubled sleep.

And she would not always sleep alone.


	27. Shadows and Moonlight

_Chapter Twenty-Seven: Shadows and Moonlight_

It was moonlight that woke Anne from her dream – bright moonlight. For a moment she lay panting in ghastly fright, for in her dream Henry had lived and she had lost her head. Then she heard a soft sigh as Lady Jane Seymour rolled over in bed and enfolded her in her arms.

"Ssh," Anne said, kissing her sleeping companion on the lips. Instantly the arms enfolding her relaxed, slackened their hold as Jane slid back into deep slumber. Anne rolled out of bed and put on a long velvet robe and a pair of slippers.

It was hard to believe that this was her last night in the palace where she had once ruled as a queen. Where she had given birth to a child, to a future queen of England. Where the husband she had once loved had turned away from her, had grown cruel and treacherous and met a horrible fate. How many nights had she lain awake in chambers just like this while Henry amused himself with other women?

Anne's bitterness faded as she looked down at the rumpled bed. She always felt a bit restless after sex, but gentle, trusting Jane slept like a baby. That was one thing her new bed partner and her old bed partner had in common, Anne thought wryly. Sex always put Henry under as well. And how he was gone forever, sleeping under the earth.

The one-time queen glided out of her bedchamber, feeling almost like a ghost returning to the scenes of her old life. For the truth was that the old Queen Anne was dead. Wild, reckless, brilliant Anne Boleyn was a new person now, setting out on a new adventure.

She glided along the silent corridors, remembering all the whispering and laughter, the plots and secrets, the excitement of life as a lady-in-waiting. Then she walked into the great hall, and relived all of her greatest triumphs. Dancing before Henry, being picked out from the rest. Sitting by his side in the glittering jewels she had wrenched away from the rightful queen. Henry had died a horrible death for his crimes against Queen Katherine, while she had lived to find new love and a new start with sweet and warm and caring Jane Seymour. It was truly more than she deserved.

And how easily things could have gone the other way!

Lost in thought, the former queen strolled out into the moonlight, leaving the joys and sorrows of her past behind. Her feet soon led her to the royal tilt yard, where Henry and his friends had played at being knights of old, jousting with long lances on horseback in front of a cheering crowd. When he was all in armor, Henry had looked so handsome, so noble and chivalrous. Perhaps once he had truly dreamed of being such a man. But a broken lance had ended all his dreams – and given a reckless, cunning little schemer a second chance.

"Why? Why, God? Why him and not me?"

Anne sank down on her knees, running the sand of the tilt yard through her fingers. Had evil triumphed in her, or was her destiny to bring great goodness into the world? Was she clever, or just lucky? Was she right or was she wrong?

"It's no use asking why," said a deep male voice from the shadows.

"Holy angels of mercy!" Anne nearly jumped out of her skin. She whirled around, and saw the hulking, handsome figure of the Duke of Suffolk. Instantly her back stiffened and her green cat's eyes grew sharp and wary. "Come to gloat over my downfall, Your Grace? You shouldn't be out of your bed at this hour. The new queen might wake up lonely."

"Mary is sleeping soundly," the big man grunted, squatting down beside her in the sand. "And I didn't come to gloat, I came to mourn. Henry was my friend too."

"Your friend too," Anne repeated. She should have said something sharp and bitter, but in the moonlight it seemed pointless. "He loved you more than me," she finally said. "If the king had lived, he would have killed me and married Jane. But he would have kept you on, always, because you were his friend." Anne said the last word almost mockingly. But the new queen's gorgeous lover didn't take the bait.

"I wouldn't have stopped him," the duke confessed, with downcast eyes. "I never stopped him. He was getting worse and worse, too. More and more selfish, more and more cruel. He called me his friend only because I never questioned the things he did."

"He would have killed you if you had," Anne told him bluntly. "You knew what he was really like, and you kept quiet. But me – I just kept right on talking. I was so blind, so stupid!"

"You were so brave," Charles Brandon said quietly.

Anne said nothing, for there was nothing more to say. Instead she took the duke's hand and squeezed it once in the moonlight.


	28. That's All Folks!

_Chapter Twenty-Eight: That's All, Folks!_

Morning light filtered through the trees before the palace gate. A long line of coaches and baggage carts stood ready to depart for Hatfield.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" asked the beautiful young Dowager Queen of England. There were smudges under her eyes from lack of sleep, but her bright green eyes still flashed defiance. The bravado of her smile covered up the nervousness fluttering in the pit of Anne Boleyn's stomach.

"I believe Her Majesty would like a word with the two of us before we depart for Hatfield." Jane Seymour gave her one time rival a serene smile, one filled with tender and intimate secrets.

"Does nothing ever disturb you, my golden honeypot?" Anne's sarcastic humor was a cover for both her overpowering attraction to the beautiful blonde Jane and her secret fears of Queen Mary's vengeance. Even though she had been promised mercy for herself and her babe, she could not help but feel that some trap was about to be sprung. If she could just get into her carriage, or jump on a horse, or run for the nearby woods . . .

The royal trumpets blew loudly, cutting off all hope of escape. The wily green-eyed minx who had once enslaved a king nearly jumped out of her skin.

"Steady, my lady," gentle Jane whispered, obviously enjoying herself. "Remember, you're the fearless type."

"You're all boobs and no brain," Anne muttered, though she couldn't help clinging to Jane's arm as the queen approached.

"Good morning, ladies," Queen Mary said graciously, walking up to the two older women with a small box in her hands. "We have come to say farewell, and to wish you all the best, since in this life our paths may never cross again."

"Your Majesty." Anne kept her sparkling green eyes fixed on the ground, utterly tongue-tied for the first time in her life.

"The Duke of Suffolk tells me that you and he had a private conference last night," the young queen said softly.

"Yes, Your Majesty." When she dared to look up, Anne saw a smile on the pale, serious queen's rather plump features.

"Both of you wept for my father's death."

"Yes, Your Majesty." Anne took a deep breath, forcing out the words she had sworn she would never ever say. "We both have sinned, Your Majesty. And both of us owe our lives to you, our noble queen and most glorious sovereign."

"We are pleased to show mercy," Queen Mary responded, with serene composure. "And to give you a charge to keep. This box holds the royal jewels that once belonged to our poor mother, Queen Katherine. You stole them through wiles and witchcraft. Now they are yours. Keep them in trust for our sister, Elizabeth. Give them to her when she is old enough to wear them. When it is her time to rule in England."

"Your Majesty." Anne's green eyes were nearly bugging out of her head. She had expected mockery, punishment, torture, a slow death. Not this overwhelming show of mercy.

"And now be gone, the both of you. We do not like our court to be filled with women who wear the most becoming fashions, and are so much slimmer and prettier than we."

Anne and Jane both made formal curtseys, and for a moment time seemed to go backwards. For a moment both of them were young ladies in waiting once again. The lords and ladies of the court all applauded their merciful young queen as she made her way back into the palace, with handsome Charles Brandon escorting her every step of the way.

"There goes a true queen of England," Jane said reverently.

"Just wait till my Elizabeth is all grown up," Anne responded.

The two ladies talked over all their adventures as they rode away in their fancy carriage, with an escort of soldiers to protect them. Anne admitted that she had misjudged Mary.

"But I still don't see how you were so certain she would show mercy," she said, gazing at Jane with intense green eyes. "What made you so certain she would change?"

"Love changes everyone," Jane replied quietly. "Look how much you've changed. Begging the queen for mercy. Admitting that you've sinned. The old Anne Boleyn would have died first."

"The old Anne Boleyn was a fool," Anne grumbled. "Always throwing tantrums, and always losing her head."

"And you haven't changed a bit," Jane said sweetly.

Anne could have cut the soft-hearted blonde down to size with a biting retort. Instead she kissed Jane with fiery passion, until the golden-haired beauty melted in her arms. Just as she had once melted in the arms of King Henry VIII.

Anne was no longer a queen. But as the carriage rattled off to Hatfield she realized was still at the height of her power.

And thanks to Jane, she always would be.

_A/N: After three years, the saga of Anne and Jane is complete! But don't worry; there will be many more Tudor sagas to come. I started this story in July, 2011, and I would never have made it completion without the inspiration of __so many__ incredible TUDOR authors and fans. Cyber cookies and hugs to everyone who read and reviewed, from Claire Hayasaka to A Mild Looking Sky, from Velocity Girl to the Weasley Boys, from the very beginning to the very end!_


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